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The Mystery of 

Central Park 

Originally published in the New York EVENING WORLD 





















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• Copyright, 18S9, by 

G. JV. Dillingham, Publisher, 

Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. 

All Rights Reserved. 


Printing and Book Binding Co., 


Chapter Page 

I. The Young Girl on the Bench 7 

II. Penelope Sets a Hard Task for Dick 19 

III. Wherein Dick Treadwell Meets with An- 

other Adventure 45 

IV. Story of the Girl who Attempted Suicide . 64 
V. The Failure of the Strike 77 

VI. Is the Girl Honest ? 87 

VII. Mr. Martin Shanks : Guardian 95 

VIII. The Missing Stenographer 103 

IX. The Stranger at the Bar 114 

X. Tolman Bike 121 

XI. Who was the Man that Bought the Gown ? 139 

XII. One and the Same 153 

XIII. A Lovers' Quarrel 166 



Chapter Page 

XIV. "Give Me Until To-Morrow." 177 

XV. " To Richard Treadwell, Personal." 190 

XVI. The Mystery Solved 205 

XVII. Sunlight Through the Clouds , . . . 220 





"And that is your final decision?" 
Dick Treadwell gazed sternly at Penelope 
Howard's downcast face, and waited for a 

Instead of answering, as good-mannered 
young women generally do, Penelope intently 
watched the tips of her russet shoes, as they 
appeared and disappeared beneath the edge 
of her gown, and remained silent. 


When she raised her head and met that 
look, so sad and yet so stern, the faintest 
shadow of a smile placed a pleasing wrinkle 
at the comers of her brown eyes. 

"Yes, that is — my final decision," she 
repeated, slowly. 

Dick Treadwell dropped despondently on 
a bench and, gazing steadily over the green 
lawn, tried to think it all out. 

He felt that he was not being used quite 
fairly, but he was at a loss for a way to remedy 

Here he was, the devoted slave of the 
rather plain girl beside him, who refused to 
marry him, merely because he had never 
soiled his firm, white hands with toil, nor 
worried his brain with a greater task, since his 
school days, than planning some way to kill 

He was one of those unfortunate mortals 
possessed of an indolent disposition, and had 


been left a modest legacy, that, though making 
him far from wealthy, was still enough to sup- 
port him in idleness. 

He lacked the spur of necessity which 
urged men on to greater deeds. 

In short, Richard was one of those worth- 
less ornaments of society that live, and die 
without doing much good or any great harm. 

That he was an ornament, however, none 
dared to deny, and the expressive brown eyes 
of the girl, who had seated herself beside him 
bore ample testimony that she was not uncon- 
scious of his manly charms. 

Dick took off his straw hat, and after run- 
ning his firm, white fingers through his kinky, 
light hair, crossed one leg over the other, while 
he brooded moodily on his peculiar fate. The 
frank, boyish expression, that had won him so 
many admirers, was displaced by a heavy 
frown, and his bright blue eyes gazed unsee- 
ingly over the beautiful vista before him. 


He could not understand why a girl should 
get such crazy ideas, any way. There were 
plenty of girls who made no effort to hide 
their admiration for him, and he knew that 
they could be had for the asking, if it only 
wasn't for Penelope. 

But, somehow, Penelope had more attrac- 
tion for him than any girl he had ever met. 
Her very obstinacy, her independence, made 
her all the more charming to him, even if it 
was provoking. 

Penelope Howard was in no wise Dick 
Treadwell's mate in beauty. 

She was slender to boniness and tall, but 
willowy and graceful, and one forgot her 
murky complexion when gazing into the 
depths of her bright, expressive eyes and 
catching the curve of a wonderfully winsome 

Penelope was an heiress, though, to a mill- 


ion dollars or more, and so no one ever called 
her plain. 

She was an orphan and had been reared by 
a sensible old aunt, who would doubtless leave 
her another million. 

Penelope knew her defects as well and bet- 
ter than did other people. Shd had no vanity 
and was blessed with an unusual amount of 
solid sense. 

Penelope Howard was well aware that she 
would not have to go begging for a husband, 
but she had loved handsome Dick Treadwell 
ever since the year before she graduated at 
Vassar. He had gone there to pay his devo- 
tions to another fair under-graduate and came 
away head over heels in love with Penelope. 
Nevertheless Penelope was in no hurry to 

She loved Richard with all her heart, but 
there was a barrier between them which he 
alone could remove. 


"You know, Dick," she said, softly, as he 
still gazed across the green lawn, trying to 
find a mental foothold, as it were, "that I told 
you this before" 

" Yes, this makes the sixth time I have 
proposed," he said, savagely, still looking 

" I have always told you," smiling slightly 
at his remark and lowering her voice as she 
glanced apprehensively at a girl seated on a 
bench near by, " that I will not marry you as 
long as you live as you do. I have money 
enough for two, so it makes no difference 
whether the man I marry has any or not. But 
I can't and won't marry a — a worthless man — 
one who has never done anything, and is too 
indolent to do anything. I want a husband 
who has some ability — who has accomplished 
something — just one worthy thing even, and 
then — well, it won't make so much difference 
if he is indolent afterwards. You know, Dick, 


how much I care for you," softly, " how fond 
I am of you, but I will not marry you until 
you prove that you are able to do something." 

'■ It's all very easy to talk about," he re- 
plied savagely, " but what can I do ? I don't 
dare risk what little I have in Wall street. I 
don't know enough to preach, or to be a 
doctor, or a lawyer, and it takes too infernally 
long to go back to the beginning and learn. 
You object to my following the races, and I 
couldn't sell ribbons or run a hotel to save me. 
Tell me what to do, Penelope, and I will 
gladly make the attempt. When you took a 
— a craze to walk in the Park at a hideous 
hour every morning before your friends, who 
don't think it good form, were out to frown 
you down, did I not promise to be your escort, 
and haven't I faithfully got up — or stayed up 
— to keep my promise?" 

"And only late — let us see how many 
times ?" she asked roguishly. 


" Penelope, don't," he pleaded. " You 
know I love you. Why, Penel', love, if I 
thought that your foolish whim would sepa- 
rate us forever I'd Oh, darling, you 

don't doubt my love, do you ?' 

"Hush!" she whispered, warningly, point- 
ing to the girl on the other bench. 

" Oh, she is asleep," Dick replied care- 

" Don't he too sure," Penelope urged, gaz- 
ing abstractedly towards the girl, her eyes soft 
with the feeling that was thrilling her heart. 

Like all girls Penelope never tired of hear- 
ing the man who had won her love swearing 
his devotion, but like all girls she preferred to 
be the sole and only listener to those vows, to 
that tone. 

"If she is awake she is the first young 
woman I ever saw who would let her new La 
Tosca sunshade lie on the ground," he said 


" She must be sleeping," Penelope assented 
indifferently, glancing at the parasol lying in 
the dust where it had apparently rolled from 
the girl's knee. 

Two gray squirrels, with their bushy tails 
held stiffly erect, came out on the dusty drive, 
and finding everything quiet scampered across 
to the green sward, where they stood upright 
in the green grass viewing curiously the un- 
happy lovers. 

Penelope had a mania for carrying peanuts 
to the Park to give to the animals. She took 
several from her reticule and tossed them to- 
wards the gray squirrels. 

The one, with a little whistling noise scam- 
pered up the nearest tree and the other, tak- 
ing a nut in his little mouth, quickly followed. 

" I have not seen her move since we came 
here," she said, returning to the subject of the 
girl. " Do you suppose she put her hat over 
her eyes in that manner to keep the light out 


of them, or was it done to keep any passers-by 
from staring at her ?" 

" I don't know," carelessly. " Probably she 
is ill," 

" 111 ? Do you think so, Dick ? I am going 
to speak to her, declared Penelope, impul- 

" Don't, I wouldn't," urged Dick. 

" But I will," declared Penelope. 

" You don't know anything about her," he 
continued pleadingly. She may have been out 
all night, or you can't tell but perhaps she has 
been drinking too much, and if you wake her 
she will doubtless make it unpleasant for you." 

" How uncharitable you are," indignantly 
exclaimed Penelope, who feared no one. She 
had spent much time and money in doing 
deeds of charity, and she had met all sorts and 
conditions of women. That a woman was in 
trouble and she could help her, was all Pene- 
lope cared to know. 


She got up and walked towards the girl. 
Richard, knowing all argument was useless, 
went with her. When they stopped, Penelope, 
bending down, peeped beneath the brim cf the 
lace hat which, laden with an abundance of 
red roses, was tilted over the motionless girl's 

" She is sleeping," she whispered softly to 
Dick. " Her eyes are closed. She has a lovely 

" Has she, indeed ?" and Dick, with in- 
creased interest, bent to look. "She is very 
pale and — I am afraid that she is ill," in an 
awed tone. "Young lady!" he called ner- 

The girlish figure never moved. Richard's 
and Penelope's eyes met with a swift expres- 
sion — a mingled look of surprise and fear. 

"My dear!" called Penelope, gently shak- 
ing the girl by the shoulder. 

The lace hat tumbled off and lay at their 


feet ; the little hands, which had been folded 
loosely in her lap, fell apart and the girlish 
figure fell lengthwise on the bench. 

Breathlessly and silently the frightened 
young couple looked at the beautiful up- 
turned face framed in masses of golden hair ; 
the blue-rimmed eyes, with their curly dark 
lashes resting gently against the colorless 
skin ; the parted lips in which there lingered a 
bit of red. 

Nervously Richard touched the cheek of 
pallor, and felt for the heart and pulse. 

" What's wrong there ?" called a gray-uni- 
formed officer, who had left his horse near the 
edge of the walk. 

Penelope silently looked at Richard, wait- 
ing for him to answer, and as he raised his 
face all white and horror-stricken, he gasped : 

" My God ! The girl is dead." 




Richard Treadwell was not mistaken. 

The golden-haired girl was dead. 
The fair young form was taken to the 
Morgue, and for some days the newspapers 
were rilled with accounts of the mystery of 
Central Park, and everybody was discussing 
the strange case. 

And what could have been more mysteri- 
ous ? 

A young and exquisitely beautiful girl, 
clad in garments stylish and expensive, 
although quiet in tone, and such as women of 
refinement wear, found dead on a bench in 
Central Park by two young people, whose 
social position was in those circles where to be 


brought in any way to public notice is consid- 
ered almost a disgrace. 

And to add to the mystery of the case the 
most thorough examination of the girl's body 
had failed to show the slightest wound or dis- 
coloration, or the faintest clue to the cause of 
the girl's death. 

The newspapers had all their own theories. 
Some were firm in their belief of foul play, 
but they could not even hint at the cause of 
death, and how such a lovely creature could 
have been murdered, if murder it was, in 
Central Park and the assassin or assassins 
escape unseen, were riddles they could not 

Other journals hooted at the idea of foul 
play. They claimed the girl had, while walk- 
ing in Central Park, sat down on the bench, 
and died either of heart disease or of poison 
administered by her own hand. 

The police authorities maintained an air of 


impenetrable secrecy, but promised that within 
a few days they would furnish some startling 
developments. They did not commit them- ^ 
selves, however, as to their ideas of how the 
girl met her death. In this they were wise, 
for the silent man is always credited with 
knowing- a great deal more than the man does 
who talks, and so the public waited impatiently 
from day to day, confident the police would 
soon clear the mystery away. 

Hundreds of people visited the Morgue, 
curious to look upon the dead girl. 

Many went there in search of missing 
friends, hoping and yet dreading that in the 
mysterious dead girl they would find the one 
for whom they searched. 

People from afar telegraphed for the body 
to be held until their arrival, but they came 
and went and the beautiful dead girl was still 

Penelope Howard and Richard Treadwell 


were made to figure prominently in all the 
stories about the beautiful mystery, much to 
their discomfort. The untiring reporters 
called to see Penelope at all hours, whenever a 
fresh theory gave them an excuse to drag her 
name before the public again, and poor 
Richard had no peace at his club, at his rooms, 
or at Penelope's home. If the reporters were 
not interviewing him, his friends were asking 
all manner of questions concerning the strange 
affair, and pleading repeatedly for the story of 
the discovery of the body to be told again. 
Some of his club acquaintances even went 
so far as to joke him about the girl he had 
found dead, and there was much quiet smiling 
among his immediate friends at Dick's fondness 
for early walks, a trait first brought to light by 
his connection with this now celebrated case. 

Not the least important figure in the sensa- 
tion was the Park policeman who found 
Penelope and Richard bending over the dead 


girl. He became a very great personage all 
at once. The meritorious deeds which 
marked his previous record were the finding 
of a lost child and the frantically chasing a 
stray dog, which he imagined was mad, and 
wildly firing at it — very wide of the mark, it is 
true — until the poor frightened little thing dis- 
appeared in some remote corner. 

This officer became the envy of the Park 
policemen. Daily his name appeared in con- 
nection with the case as "the brave officer of 
the 'Mystery of Central Park.'" Daily he 
was pointed out by the people, who thronged 
to the spot where the girl was found, curious 
to see the bench and to carry away with them 
some little memento. He always managed to 
be near the scene of the mystery during the 
busy hours of the Park, and the dignity with 
which he answered questions as to the exact 
bench, was very impressive. 

But the officer's pride at being connected 


with such a sensational case was not to be 
wondered at. 

Rarely had New York been so stirred to 
its depth over a mysterious death. The news- 
papers published the most minute descriptions 
of the dead girl's dainty silk underwear, of 
her exquisitely made Directoire dress, of her 
Suede shoes, the silver handled La Tosca sun- 
shade, and more particularly did they dwell on 
descriptions of her dainty feet and tiny hands, 
of her perfect features and masses of beautiful 
yellow hair. 

There was every indication of refinement 
and luxury about her. 

How came it, then, that a being of such 
beauty and grace could have no one who 
missed her ; could have no one to search 
frantically the wide world for her ? 

The day of the inquest came. 

Penelope, accompanied by her aunt and 
Richard, were forced to be present. Penelope 


in a very steady voice told how they found the 
body, and she was questioned and cross- 
questioned as to the reason why she should 
have become so interested in the si^ht of an 
apparently sleeping girl as to accost her. 

It was a most unusual thing. 

Did she not think that it had been sug- 
gested by the young man who accompanied 

Penelope's cheeks burned and she became 
very indignant at their efforts to connect 
Richard more closely with the case, and she 
related all that had transpired after they spoke 
of the girl with such minuteness and ease, 
that it was hinted afterwards that she had 
studied the story in order to protect the 

Poor Richard came next. 

His story did not differ from Penelope's, 
and while no one said in so many words 
that they suspected him of knowing more 


than he divulged, yet he felt their suspicions 
and accusations in every question and every 

A very knowing newspaper had that same 
morning published a long story, relating in- 
stances where murderers could not remain 
away from their victims, and always returned 
to the spot, in many cases pretending to be 
the discoverer of the murder. The story 
finished by demanding that the authorities de- 
cide at the inquest whose hand was in the 
murder of the beautiful young girl. 

Dick, remembering all this, felt his heart 
swell with indignation at the tones of his ex- 

Penelope was more indignant, if anything, 
than Dick, but she had read in a newspaper 
that repudiated the theory of murder, a collec- 
tion of accounts of deaths which had been 
thought suspicious that were afterwards 
proven to be the result of heart disease or 


poison, and she quietly hoped that the doc- 
tors who held the post-mortem examination 
would set at rest all the doubts in the case. 

The park policeman, in a grandiloquent 
manner, gave his testimony. 

He told how he found the young couple 
bending over the dead girl, who was half lying 
on a bench. When the officer asked what was 
wrong, the young man, who seemed excited 
and frightened — and he laid great stress on 
those words — replied " The girl is dead." The 
officer had then looked at the body but did not 
touch it. The young people denied any 
knowledge of the girl's identity, and then his 
suspicions being aroused he asked the young 
man why he had replied "The girl is dead," if 
he did not know her ? 

The young man repeated that he had 
never seen the dead girl before, and his com- 
panion gave him a quick, frightened glance ; so 
the officer said sternly : 


" Be careful, young man, remember you 
are talking to the law; I'll have to report 
everything you say." 

And then the officer paused to take breath 
and at the same time to give proper \yeight to 
his words. Everybody took the opportunity 
to remove their gaze from the officer and to 
see how Dick Treadwell was bearing it. They 
were getting more interested now and nearly 
everyone felt that the elegant young man 
would be in the clutches of the law by the 
time the inquest was adjourned. 

The officer cleared his throat and in a 
deep, gruff voice continued his story. 

At his warning the young man had flushed 
very red, then paled, and then he called the 
officer a fool. 

Still the conscientious limb of the law de- 
termined to know more at out two young peo- 
ple, who, while able to drive, were doing such 
unusual and extraordinary things as walking 


early in the Park and happening upon the dead 
body of a young girl ; so he asked the young 
man why, if he did not know the girl, he did 
not say "a girl is dead here," instead of " the 
girl is dead," whereupon the young man told 
the officer again that he was a fool, adding sev- 
eral words to make it more emphatic, and at 
this the young girl, who stood by very gravely 
up to this time, had the boldness and impu- 
dence to laugh. 

Richard Treadwell was called again, and 
had to repeat the reason of his early walk in 
the Park, and had to tell where he spent the 
previous evening, which was proven by Pene- 
lope and her aunt. He was questioned why 
he used the definite article instead of the in- 
definite in answering the officer's question. 
He could offer no explanation. 

That a man should say " the girl " instead 
of " a girl," and that he should be excited over 
finding the body of a girl unknown to him, 


were things that looked very suspicious to the 
law, and those in charge of the inquest had no 
hesitancy in showing the fact. 

A few persons whose testimony was unim- 
portant were called, and then came the doc- 
tors who had made the post-mortem examina- 
tion. Nothing was discovered to indicate 
murder or suicide, nor, indeed, could they 
come to any definite conclusion as to the cause 
of death. 

The coroner's jury brought in an indefinite 
verdict, showing that they knew no more 
about the circumstances or cause of the girl's 
death than they did at the beginning of the 
inquest. With this unsatisfactory conclusion 
the public was forced to rest content. 

They did know that the girl had not been 
shot or stabbed, which was some satisfaction, 
at any rate. 

Penelope persuaded her aunt and Richard 
to accompany her through the Morgue. She 


was deeply hurt at the way in which Dick had 
been treated. Still she wanted to look on 
the face of the fair young girl, the cause of all 
the worriment, before she was taken to her 

" How dreadful !" exclaimed Penelope's 
aunt, as the keeper unbolted the door and 
waited, before he closed it, for them to enter 
the low room. 

She tiptoed daintly over the stone floor — 
which, wet all over, had little streams formed 
in places flowing from different hose — holding 
her skirts up with one hand, and with the 
other hand held a perfumed handkerchief over 
her aristocratic nose. Penelope, with serious 
but calm face, kept close to the keeper, and 
Richard walked silently with the aunt. 

" I thought the bodies lay on marble slabs," 
said Penelope, glancing at the row of plain, 
unpainted rough boxes set close together on 
iron supports. 


" They did in the old Morgue, but ever 
since we've been in this building we put them 
in the boxes. They keep better this way," 
explained the keeper, delighted to show the 
sights of the Morgue to persons of social 

" Do you know the history of all these 
dead?" asked Penelope, counting the fifty and 
odd coffins which came one after the other. 

"We know somethin' about most all 'cept 
those found in the river, and the river furnishes 
more bodies than the whole city do. We 
photograph every body and we pack their 
clothes away, with a description of 'em, and 
keep them six months. The photographs we 
always keep, so that years after people may 
find their lost here. Would you like to see 
them, miss ?" 

" You see," continued the man, lifting a 
lid, "we burn a cross on the coffins of the 
Catholics, and the Protestants get no mark. 


The boxes with the chalk mark on are the 
ones that's to be buried to-morrow. This man 
here, miss/' holding the lid up, " was a street- 
car driver; want to see him, mam?" 

Penelope's aunt shook her head negatively. 

" He struck, and could not get work after- 
wards, so as he and his family was starvin', he 
made them one less by committing suicide." 

" It is so hard to die," Penelope said with 
a shudder. 

" Hard ? Not a bit, miss ; death's a great 
boon to poor people. This 'ere fellow," hold- 
ing another lid while Penelope gazed with dry, 
burning eyes down on a weather-beaten face, 
which, seared with a million premature 
wrinkles, wore a smile of rest, " he was a 
tramp, they 'spose. Fell dead on Sixth 
Avenue, an' he had nothin' on him to identify 
him. And this 'ere woman who lies next the 
Park mystery girl, though she do smile like 
she got somethin' she wanted — an' they nearly 


all smile, miss, when they've handed in their 
'counts — she were a devil. She's done time on 
the island, and they've had her in Blackwell's 
Insane Asylum, but 'twan't no good; soon as 
she got out she was at her old tricks. Drink, 
drink, if she had to steal it, an' fight an' 
swear ! They picked her up on a sidewalk the 
last time and hauled her to the station-house, 
but when mornin' come an' they called her she 
didn't show up; an' when they dragged her 
out, thinkin' she was still full, they found she'd 
got a death sentence and gone on a last trip to 
the island where they never come back." 

A little woman, stumpy, fat and old, in 
a shabby black frock and plain black bonnet, 
came in with one of the keeper's assistants. 
She held a coarse white cotton handkerchief in 
her hand, and her wrinkled, broad face with its 
fish-like mouth, thick, upturned nose and 
watery blue eyes, looked prepared to show 


evidence of grief when the search among the 
labelled rough-boxes was successful. 

" Mrs. Lang," read the man who was 
assisting the woman in her search, "from the 
Almshouse ?" 

" Yes, that was her name, true enough. 
The Lord rest her soul !" the woman re- 
sponded fervently, and the man slid the lid 
across the box, and the little old woman, hold- 
ing the handkerchief over her stubby nose, 
peeped in. 

" Yes, that's her ; that's Mrs. Lang. Poor 
thing ! Ah ! she do look desolate," she 
wailed. " She hasn't a fri'nd in all the world," 
she continued, looking with her weak eyes at 
Penelope, who sympathetically stopped by her. 
" She was eighty years old, and paralyzed from 
her knees down. Poor thing, they took her to 
the Almshouse not quite a month ago, and she 
looks like she'd had a hard time, sure enough. 
Poor Mrs. Lang, she do look desolate." 


The man closed the box as if he had given 
her time enough to weep, and the wailing 
woman went out. 

"What becomes of the bodies of these 
poor unfortunates ?" asked Penelope, with a 
catch in her voice. 

" Most of 'em we give to the medical col- 
leges as subjects. Yes, men and women, 
black and white alike. That nigger woman, 
who wouldn't tell on the man who gave her a 
death stab, lying to the other side of the Park 
mystery girl, will be taken to a college to-night. 
The bodies not sold are all sent up to Hart's 
Island, where they're buried in a big trench." 

Penelope's sympathic nature quivered with 
pity by reason of what she had seen and 
heard. She secretly resolved to give the 
poor unknown girl a respectable burial, and to 
order some flowers to be strewed in the rough- 
boxes with the other unfortunates who would 
be taken to the Potter's Field to-morrow. 


"Death is a horrible thing," she remarked 
sadly, as they filed through the iron doors 

" It is, miss," the keeper assented. " I've 
had charge of this here Morgue for these 
twenty years, still if I was to allow myself to 
think about death and the mystery of the here- 
after, I'd go crazy. 

" But the thought of Heaven. It is surely 
some consolation," faltered Penelope. 

" Twenty years' work in there," nodding 
his head towards the throne where death sits 
always ; where the only noise is the sound of 
the dripping water ; " hasn't left any fairy tales 
in my mind about what comes after. We live, 
and when we're dead that's the last of it. You 
can tell children about the * good man ' and 
'bad man' and Heaven and — beggin' your par- 
don — Hell, just the same as you tell them 
about Santa Claus, but when they grow up if 
they thinks for themselves they know its fairy 


tales — all fairy tales. When you're dead, 
you're dead, and that's the last of it, take my 
word for that." 

Penelope was not a religious fanatic, but 
her few pious beliefs experienced a little re- 
sentful shock at the man's outspoken words. 
She haughtily drew her shoulders up, the kind 
expression faded from her face, leaving it less 
attractive, and she was conscious of a little 
feeling of repulsion for the unbelieving 
Morgue keeper. Not that the keeper's ideas 
were so foreign to those that had visited her 
own mind. She had many times felt dubious 
on such subjects herself, but she had always 
felt it to be her duty to kill doubt and trust in 
that which was taught her concerning the life 

Penelope joined her aunt and Richard 
Treadwell, where they stood under a shade 
tree opposite the Morgue waiting her. 

In a few words she told what she wished 


to do. Her kind aunt good naturedly en- 
couraged her. Perhaps what they had seen 
had had a softening effect on her as well. 

Instead of driving home they drove to the 
coroner's, and with the permit which they 
obtained without difficulty, to an undertakers, 
where the final arrangements were made for 
the girl's burial. 

So the beautiful mystery of Central Park 
was not sent to a medical college nor to the 
Potters Field, The next morning Penelope 
accompanied Richard in his coupe, and Mrs. 
Louise Van Brunt, her aunt, who had in her 
carriage two charitable old lady friends, fol- 
lowed the sombre hearse in its slow journey 
across the bridge to Brooklyn. In a quiet 
graveyard on the outskirts of the city the dead 
girl was lowered into the earth. 

Penelope was greatly wrought up over the 
case. All the way to the graveyard she was 
moody and silent. Seeing that she was not 


inclined to talk, Richard too sat silent and 

Added to her interest in the dead girl, the 
evident suspicions entertained against Richard 
had preyed upon Penelope's mind. While 
she never doubted Richard's innocence in the 
affair, still ugly thoughts concerning his care- 
less nature, and the recalled rumors of affairs 
with actresses, of more or less renown, which 
the newspapers darkly hinted at, almost set her 
wild. Could it be possible that he had known 
the girl, or ever seen her before they found 
her dead ? 

She recalled his excitement when he leaned 
down and for the first time saw the face of the 
girl as she sat on the bench. The officer had 
laid great stress on Dick's excited manner, and 
to Penelope, as she looked back, it seemed 
suggestive of more than he had acknowledged. 

" And I love him, I love him," she cried to 
herself during the long ride to the cemetery, 


"and with this horrible suspicion hanging over 
him I could never marry him ; I could never 
be happy if I did. I can never be happy if I 
don't. If we only knew something about it ; if 
only people did not hint things ; if I could only 
crush the horrible idea that he knows more 
than he told I" 

They dismounted, after driving into the 
cemetery, and walked silently across the 
green ; winding in and out among the grassy 
and flowered beds and white stones which 
marked all that had once been life — hope. 

An unknown but Christian minister stood 
waiting them at the open grave. Penelope 
glanced at him and at the workmen, who left 
the shade of a tree near-by when they saw the 
party approaching, and came forward with 
faces void of any feeling but that of impudent 
curiosity. The minister repeated the burial 
service very softly, as the coffin was lowered 
into the earth. Penelope's throat felt bursting, 


and her heart beat painfully as Richard, with 
strangely solemn face, dropped some flowers 
into the grave. 

" Oh death ? How horrible, how horrible !" 
she thought, " and I, too, some day must die ; 
must be put in a grave, and then — and then, 
what ? What have we done to our Creator 
that we must die ? And that poor girl ! This 
is the last for all eternity, and there is not one 

here she knew to see the last, unless " but 

the morbid thought against Richard refused to 
form itself into definite shape. 

The men who filled the grave were the 
most light-hearted in the group. They pulled 
up a board, and the pile of fresh earth at the 
mouth of the grave, which it had upheld, 
went rattling in on the coffin and flowers, 
almost gladly it seemed to Penelope. She 
shivered slightly, but watched as if fascinated, 
until the men put on the last shovel-full and 
with a spade deftly shaped out the mound. 


Richard helped her cover the newly-made 
grave with the flowers and green ivy and 
smilax they had brought for that purpose. 

They were the last to leave. The others 
had walked slowly among the graves and back 
to the place where the carriages were waiting. 
The hearse, immediately after the coffin was 
lowered into the earth, had gone off with rol- 
licking speed, as if eager for new freight, and 
the workmen with their spades and picks had 

" It is ended," said Dick with a relieved 
sigh, as he led Penelope back to her carriage. 
" Now let us forget all the misery of these last 
few days and be happy." 

" It is not ended," exclaimed Penelope, 
spiritedly. " It has only begun. I can never 
be happy until I know the secret of that girl's 

" That is impossible, Penelope," replied 
Dick. " That mystery can never be solved." 


" Dick, you have sworn you love me ; you 
have sworn that you would do anything I 
asked if I would marry you. Did you mean 
it ? Will you swear it again ?" cried Penelope, 

" Mean it, love ?" repeated Dick, as he 
pressed her hand closely between his arm and 
heart. " Upon my life, I swear it." 

"Then solve the mystery of that girl's 
death, and I will be your wife." 




Richard Treadwell was in despair. 

Days had passed since the burial of the 
unknown girl, and he was no nearer the solu- 
tion of the mystery than he was on the morn- 
ing of the discovery. He had not learned one 
new thing in the case, and what was infinitely 
worse, he had not the least idea how to set 
about the task. 

He had taken to wandering restlessly about 
the city racked with the wildest despondency. 

" Great Lord, if I only had an idea," he 
thought, desperately, as he walked up Fifth 
Avenue. " If I only knew how to begin — if I 


only knew where to begin — if I only knew 
what to do — if I only — Confound the girl, 
anyhow. Why couldn't she have died some- 
where else, or why didn't some one else find 
her instead of us. Confound it, I'll be handed 
if I hadn't enough to worry about before. 
Women will take the most infernal whims. 
Good Lord ! If I wasn't suspected of being 

connected with her death, and if Penelope 

But I'll be d if I can give it the go-by. 

It's solve the mystery or lose Penelope ! If I 
only knew how to go to work. But, by Jove, 
I know I could preach a sermon, or set a 
broken leg, or — or cook a dinner easier than 
find out why, where, when, how, that yellow- 
haired girl died. Curse my luck, anyhow." 

" I have read stories where fellows who 
don't know much start out to solve murder 
mysteries, but they always find something 
which all the detectives and police authorities 
overlooked, which gives them the right clue to 


work on. It's very good for tales, but I find 
nothing. The rest are just as smart and 
smarter at finding clues than I am. They got 
nothing. I got nothing, and what to do 
would puzzle a Solomon." 

Dick stopped and looked up to the 
windows of Penelope's home, where his 
wandering feet had brought him. He had not 
seen her for two days ; so busy on the case, he 
wrote her with a groan, and then he had sent 
her a bunch of roses, and gone forth to kill 
another day in aimless wanderings. 

But here, before her door — how could a 
lover resist the temptation to enter and be 
happy in the presence of his divinity for a few 
moments at least ? Richard was not one of 
the resisting kind any way, so, after a mo- 
ment's thought, he ran up the broad stone 
steps and was ushered into Penelope's room 
off the library — half sitting-room, half study 
— to wait for her. 


Nothing was wanting in Penelope's special 
den, that luxury could suggest, to make it an 
exquisite retreat for a young woman with a 
taste for the beautiful. There were heavy 
portieres, soft, rich carpet, handsome rugs 
here and there on the floor and thrown care- 
lessly over low divans. Chairs and lounges of 
different shapes, all made for comfort, little 
tables strewed with rich bric-a-brac, unique 
spirit lamps, and on easels and hanging around 
were paintings and etchings, all of which, as 
Penelope said, had a story in them. 

There were some fine statues, among which 
were several the work of Penelope. A little 
low organ, with a piano lamp near it, stood 
open and there were music and books in pro- 

Near where the daylight came strongest 
was a sensible flat-top desk littered with paper, 
cards, books and the thousand little trinkets — 


useless, if you please — which a refined woman 
gathers about to please her eye. 

The most unusual things that would have 
impressed a stranger, if by some unknown 
chance he could gain admittance here, was a 
mixed collection of odd canes and weapons, 
and a skull in the centre of the desk, which 
was utilized as an inkstand and a penholder. 

" Why, Dick," said Penelope, as she 
tripped lightly in, clad in an artistic gray 
carriage gown. " I am glad to see you. I 
wish you had been earlier so you could have 
enjoyed a drive with aunt and me." 

" I have been busy," Richard said bravely, 
releasing the hand she had given him on en- 

They sat down together on a sofa. 

" I have been so occupied that I haven't 
had time for a drive these last few days." 

" And have you discovered anything yet ?" 
Penelope asked, eagerly. 


■' Well, not exactly," hesitatingly, " it will 
take time to clear it all up, you know." 

" Tell me, do you know her name yet, and 
where she came from, and was she really 
murdered ?" 

" Slowly, slowly ; would you have me spoil 
my luck by telling what I have done ?" asked 
Richard evasively, his eyes twinkling. 

u Oh, you superstitious boy," laughed Pe- 
nelope, lightly tapping him with her hand, 
which he immediately caught and held captive 
in his own. 

" Don't be unkind," he pleaded, as she 
tried to draw her hand away. 

" Not for worlds," she replied gravely, ceas- 
ing to struggle. " Mr. John Stetson Maxwell 
called here last night, and he told me of an ex- 
perience he had when he was an editor, that 
made me resolve never to speak or act un- 
kindly if I can help it." 


" I am deeply obliged to Mr. Maxwell," 
Richard responded lightly. 

" But it was very sad, Dick. I felt un- 
happy all the evening over it." 

" I wish my miseries and wretchedness 
could have the same influence on you," he 
broke in with a laugh. 

" Don't you want to hear the story ? I had 
intended to tell it to you," she said, half pro- 
voked at his lack of seriousness. 

" Why, certainly. By all means," he re- 
plied, grave enough now. He never joked 
when she assumed that tone and look. 

" When he was an editor," she began softly, 
" he one day received a very bright poem from 
a man in Buffalo. He did not know the man 
as a writer, still the poem was so meritorious 
that he straightway accepted it, and sent a 
note to the author enclosing a check for the 
work. A few days afterwards, the man's card 
was sent in, with a request for an interview. 


Mr. Maxwell was very busy at the time, but he 
thought he would give the man a moment, 
so he told the boy to bring the visitor up. 
When he came in, Mr. Maxwell was surprised 
to see a young man of some twenty-five 
years. He was not well clad, and was much 
abashed when he found himself in the pres- 
ence of such a great personage as the editor, 
Mr. Maxwell." 

" Rightly, rightly," Richard said, good 
naturedly, patting her hands encouragingly. 

" Mr. Maxwell recalled afterwards that 
the young man looked in wretched spirits," 
Penelope continued, with a slow smile. "At 
the time he was too hurried to notice any- 
thing, and then editors are used to seqing 
people who are in ill-luck. He brusquely 
asked the young man his business, seeing 
that he made no effort to tell it, and then 
the young man said he had come to the city 
and thought he would like to look around 


the office. Mr. Maxwell rang for a boy, and 
telling him to show the young man about, 
shortly dismissed him. In a few days after 
he received a batch of poetry from the 
young man, but though of remarkable merit, 
Mr. Maxwell thought it too sombre in tone 
for his publication, so he enclosed it with 
one of the printed slips used for rejected 
manuscripts. In a day or so Mr. Maxwell 
was shocked to read of the young man's 
death. He had gone out to the park, and 
sitting down on a bench, beside the lake, 
put a revolver to his ear and so killed him- 
self. He fell off the bench and into the lake, 
and his body was not found until the next 
day. He had a letter in his pocket request- 
ing that his body be cremated. He left 
enough money to pay the expenses, and word 
for one of his friends that he could do as he 
wished with his ashes." 


"Well, many people do the same thing," 
Richard said, rather unfeelingly. 

" Yes, but this case was particularly sad," 
Penelope asserted. " The young man was all 
alone. He hadn't a relative in the world. He 
had fought his way up and had just completed 
his law studies, but had not, as yet, succeeded 
in obtaining any practice. He was in distress 
and Mr. Maxwell thinks, as I do, that he was 
so encouraged when his poem was accepted 
that he came to the city with the purpose of 
asking employment of the editor, but being 
greeted so coldly and roughly, I think he 
could not tell the object of his visit. On his 
return to Buffalo, as a last hope, he wrote some 
poetry which was colored with his own de- 
spondent feelings, and when they were all 
returned to him it was the last straw — he went 
out and shot himself." 

" But what else could Mr. Maxwell have 
done, Penelope," Richard asked, in a business 


way. He could not accept work, and pay for 
it, that was not suitable for his periodical. I 
don't see how he could reproach himself in 
that case." 

" I do and so does he," she replied stoutly. 
" It wouldn't have taken any more time to be 
kind to that man than it took to be unkind to 
him, and when he rejected the poetry, instead 
of sending back that brutal printed notice he 
could have had his stenographer write a line, 
saying the poetry, though meritorious, was not 
suitable for his journal. That would, at least, 
have eased the disappointment." 

" But editors haven't time for such things, 

" Then let them take time. I tell you it 
takes less time to be kind than to be unkind," 
she maintained, nodding her head positively. 

" If they were not short, bores would occupy 
all their time," he persisted. 

" Richard, we will not argue the case," she 


said loftily, as a woman always does when she 
feels she is being worsted. "You can't make 
me think anything will excuse a man for being 
brutal and unkind." 

Richard had his own opinion on the subject, 
but he was wise enough to refrain from trying 
to make Penelope have a similar one. 

" I am going away," she said, presently, 
finding that Dick was not averse to dropping 
the discussion. " Auntie has accepted an invita- 
tion to go to Washington for a few days to 

visit Mrs. Senator , and I am to go along. 

I rather dread it, but auntie says they won't 
know as much about the Park mystery there, 
and I won't be worried with reporters." 

" I hope not, " replied Dick, beginning al- 
ready to feel the ghastly emptiness which per- 
vaded the city for him when Penelope was not 
in it. As long as he knew Penelope was in the 
city, even if he did not see her, he had a certain 
happiness of nearness, but when she was away 


he felt as desolate as Adam must have done 
before Eve came. 

" Penelope, girlie," he. said, with a sudden 
hope, "could we not be engaged while I am 
working on this case ? It would not embar- 
rass you in any way, for we only need tell 
your aunt, and it would be such help, such 
encouragement, such happiness, sweet to me. 
You see it may take months to solve this mys- 
tery." Poor Richard thought it would take 
years. " And if I only knew, darling, that I 
had your promise, I could do so much. It 
would help me to conquer the world. Don't 
be hard-hearted, dear ; don't be cruel to the 
one who loves you more than anything on 
earth or in heaven." 

" No, no, Dick, you must wait," said Pene- 
lope. " Wait until the mystery is solved, it 
shouldn't take you a great while " — (Richard 
sighed) — "and then, and then — " 

" Then ?" repeated Dick, questioningly. 


She looked down with sudden embarrassment ; 
he put his arms around her slender waist and 
drew her close to him. " Then ? my love, my 
soul !"— 

" Dearest, come here !" called Penelope's 
aunt, in that well-bred voice of hers which 
charmed all hearers, but at this particular 
moment was very exasperating to Dick. 
" Richard, come, I want you to see the man 
standing on the other side of the Avenue. I 
have been watching him and I think it is quite 
probable that he is watching the house. Are 
we never to have done with that Park mystery 
business ?" 

They all looked cautiously through the 
curtains, and they all agreed that the man was 
watching the house for some purpose. 

"They are after you, Dick," exclaimed 
Penelope. " Oh, I am so afraid this will result 
seriously to you." 

Richard thought so too, only where she 


was concerned, though ; but he did not give 
voice to his fears. 

" My dear child," laughed the aunt, with 
that pleasant ring. " Do not talk such non- 
sense ! Richard is able to take care of him- 
self, and especially now that he knows some 
one is following him." 

Shortly afterwards Dick took his leave of 
Penelope. She maintained an air of cheerful- 
ness as he said farewell, but though the mouth 
was merry, the sad eyes which met his seemed 
to whisper the nearness of tears. 

Catching up his walking-stick, Richard 
hastily left the house. He was feeling so blue 
that he was almost savage. He thought of 
the man who had been watching the house, 
and he looked to see if he was still there, half 
tempted to hunt the fellow out and pull his 

Sure enough, the man was there and, as 
Richard started down the Avenue, he sneaked 


along on the other side, much after the manner 
of a disobedient dog who had been told to stay 
at home. Dick hailed a passing stage, after 
walking a little way, and almost as soon as he 
was seated the man also got in. Richard was 
not in a mood to bear watching, so he jumped 
out when he saw an empty hansom cab, and, 
engaging it, told the driver to cross town. 
He did not drive far until he had made sure 
that he had eluded his would-be follower, and 
having no appetite yet for dinner he ordered 
the driver to go to Central Park, where he 
paid and dismissed him. 

Now that he was alone, he became con- 
scious of a desire to visit the scene of the 
mystery which promised to be so fatal to his 

" I'll go there and think it over," he mused ; 
"it may give me some idea how to work it 
out." And on he walked over the course he 
and Penelope had taken that direful morning. 


Night was coming on and the Park was de- 
serted, except for an occasional workman 
taking a hurried cut across the Park home. 
How dreary and quiet everything was, and 
then he thought about the officer who had 
made himself so obnoxious. This led him to 
wonder if there were no policemen on duty at 
night in the Park. He could not remember 
of ever having noticed any the few times he 
had visited the Park after nightfall, and there 
were none visible now anywhere. 

He stopped to look for a few moments at 
the bench where they had found the dead girl, 
and then he walked on until he came to a 
bench near the reservoir, where he sat down, 
and lighting a cigarette gave himself up to un- 
happy thoughts on his unhappy position. 

" If only the Fates would throw something 
in my way to help me solve that mystery," he 
thought. " Unless the most extraordinary 
things occur I shall never be able to tell any- 


thing about it. Penelope firmly believes it 
was a murder, but I can't see what grounds she 
has for it. She thinks it was a deliberate and 
well-planned murder, because no one has 
claimed the girl, and I sometimes think so my- 
self, but how to prove it ? — that's the ques- 

And Dick gazed seriously at the space of 
light made by the opening for the reservoir, 
and on to the dense thickness of trees where 
night seemed to be lurking, ready to pounce 
down on all late comers. 

As he looked he became aware of some- 
thing moving between him and the spot of 
light. He was a brave young man, yet his 
heart beat a little quicker as he strained his 
eyes to see what the moving object was. 

Again it passed in view, and this time it 
looked to be something climbing ; another 
moment and it was on the edge of the reser- 


Now, plainly outlined between him and the 
strip of light sky, he saw the figure of a 
woman, a slender girl with flowing hair. 

Quick as a flash came the horrible thought 
that she had come there to die — that she in- 
tended to commit suicide. 

With a choking cry of horror he ran 
swiftly towards her. 




Richard Treadwell sat moodily on a bench, 
half supporting the limp form of the girl he 
had just saved from death. 

He had caught her just as she threw up 
her hands with a pitiful, weak cry, ready to 
spring into the reservoir. 

" My dear young woman, don't take on so," 
he said, vexedly, as the girl leaned against his 
shoulder, and sobbed in a heart-broken, dis- 
tracted manner. " You are safe now." 

As if that could be consolation to a 
woman who was seeking death which sought 
her not. 

" Really, I am sorry, you know, but there's 


a good girl, don't cry," making a ludicrous 
attempt to console her. " I did it before I 
thought ; if I had known how much you 
would have been grieved, I — I assure you, 
upon my honor, I wouldn't have done it. 
I — I haven't much to live for, either, still 
when I saw what you intended to do — it 
shocked me that you should be so desperate. 
Now that it's all over I wouldn't cry any more. 
I'd laugh, as if it were a joke, you know. I'd 
say the fates had saved me for some treat they 
had reserved for me. There, that's better, 
don't cry, you are not hurt — not even wet." 

The girl broke into a nervous, hysterical 
laugh, in which the sobs struggled for mastery. 
Dick, much relieved, added a laugh that 
sounded rather hollow and mirthless. 

" I c-can't help it," said she, haltingly and 
endeavoring to stop her sobs. " It seems so 
unreal to be still living when I wanted to be 
dead. I — I thought it all over, and it seemed 


so comforting to think of it being ended. 
Then I couldn't see, nor think, nor hear, nor 
suffer. Oh, why did you stop me ?" 

" I didn't know, you see ; I didn't under- 
stand it all. I thought you would regret it — 
that you were making a mistake," he tried to 
say cheerfully. . 

" What right has anybody — what right had 
you to prevent me from ending my life ? I 
don't want to live ! I am tired of life and of 
misery. I want to know what right any one 
has to interfere — to make me live a life that 
doesn't concern them and only brings me 
misery ?" she cried, indignantly. 

" Come now, don't be so cast down." At 
this burst of anger Richard was himself again. 
" Tell me all about it ; maybe I can help you. 
Have things gone wrong?" 

" Have they ever gone right ? Don't 
preach to me. It's easy to preach to people 
who have friends and money and home. 


Save your sermons for them. I have nothing ! 
I am all alone in this great big heartless 
world. I haven't a cent, a home or a friend, 
and I'm tired of it all. There is no use in 
talking to me. Some people get it all, and 
the others get nothing. I am one of the 
unlucky ones, and the only thing for me to do 
is to die." 

" Why, my good girl, there is surely some- 
thing better for you than death." 

" There is nothing but trouble and hunger, 
and sometimes work. Do you call that better 
than death ?" she cried despondently. 

What a story her few words contained ! 
But Richard, happy, careless, fortunate, little 
understood their real import. 

He knew the girl was very much depressed 
and morbid, so he concluded it might have a 
beneficial effect if he could induce her to relate 
her woes to him. 


How mountainous our troubles grow when 
we brood over them. 

How they dwindle into little ant-heaps 
when we relate them to another. 

Richard talked in his frank, healthy way to 
the girl, and it was not long until she told him 
the simple, pathetic story of her life. 

Her name was Dido Morgan, she said. 
She was a country girl, the only child of a vil- 
lage doctor, who lived in comfort but died 
penniless. Her mother died at her birth. 
She had been raised well, and when reduced 
to poverty she was too proud to go to work in 
her native village, so after her father was 
buried she came to New York. 

She soon found that without experience 
and references she could not get any desirable 
work in New York. When all other things 
failed, she, at last, in desperation, applied for 
and obtained a position in a paper-box factory. 
She was fortunate enough to learn the work 


rapidly, and in a few months was able to earn 
as much as the best workers. She rented a 
little room on the top floor of a large tene- 
ment-house, where she slept and cooked her 
food. Every week she managed to save a 
little out of her scant earnings. 

One day a girl who worked at the same 
table with Dido, and who had for a long time 
been her friend, fainted. The girls crowded 
around them as Dido knelt on the floor to 
bathe the sick girl's head and rub her hands. 

" Aha ! Away from yer tables durin' work 
hours. I'll pay yer fer this, I'll dock every 
one of you," yelled the foreman, who at this 
instant entered the work-room. 

The girls, frightened, crept quietly back to 
their work, but Dido still continued to bathe 
the girl's head. 

" Here, you daisy on the floor, you'll dis- 
obey me, hey ? I'll dock yer twice," brutally 


spoke the foreman as he caught a glimpse of 
Dido's head across the table. 

She looked at him with scorn. If glances 
could kill, he would have died at her feet. 
Still, she managed to say, quietly : 

" Maggie Williams has fainted." 

" And because a girl faints must all the 
shop stop work and disobey rules, eh? I'll 
pay yer for this. I'll teach yer," he vowed, as 
he quitted the room. 

Dido, unmindful of his brutal threats, 
turned her attention to Maggie, who in a short 
time opened her eyes and tried to rise.; 

" Lie still awhile yet, Maggie," urged her 
self-appointed nurse. " I'll hold your head on 
my knee. Don't you feel better now?" 

But the girl made no reply. Her small 
gray eyes stared unblinkingly, unseeingly, up 
at the smoked rafters of the ceiling. 

" What is it, Maggie ?" asked the kindly 
Dido, smoothing the wet, tangled hair, her 


slender fingers expressing the sympathy which 
found no utterance in words. " Are you still 
ill? Shall I take you home to your mother?" 

The stare in the small gray eyes grew 
softer and softer ; the corners of the mouth 
drew down into a pitiful curve, the under lip 
quivering like a tiny leaf in a strong wind ; 
turning her face down, she sobbed vehe- 

Drawing the poor thin body into a closer 
embrace, Dido sought to comfort the weeping 

Some of the nearest workers hearing those 
low, heavy sobs, started nervously, and their 
hands were not as cunning as usual as they 
covered the boxes, but they dared not go near 
their unhappy companion or speak the sym- 
pathy they felt. 

" I'm awfully sorry, Maggie," whispered 
Dido, " don't cry so ; you'll feel better by- 


" Mother's dead," blurted out Ma^ie. 

Dido was stunned into silence by this com- 
munication. She could say nothing. 

What could you say to a girl when her 
mother is dead ? 

What could console a girl at such a time ? 

Maggie told Dido that the dead body of 
her mother, who, for a year past, had been 
confined to her bed with consumption, was 
lying alone, uncared for, at home. 

" I loved her so, and I did't want her to 
die," she said pitifully. " I was afraid to go 
home after work for fear I'd find her dead, and 
I was afraid to sleep at night for fear she'd be 
dead when I woke up. She lay so still, and 
she looked so white and death-like, and I 
would lean on my elbow and watch her, fear- 
ing her breath would stop. Every few mo- 
ments I prayed, ' O God, save her !' ' O God, 
have mercy !' I — I couldn't say more, and I 
would swallow down the thing that would 


choke my throat and wink away the tears that 
would come, and watch and watch, until I 
couldn't bear the doubt any longer, then I 
would touch her gently with my foot to see if 
she was still warm, and that would wake her, 
and I would be so sorry. 

" All last night I never took my eyes off 
her dear face," Maggie continued between her 
sobs, and Dido was softly crying, too, then. 

n She wouldn't eat the things I had brought 
her, and when I talked to her she didn't seem 
to understand, but said things about father, 
who died so long ago, and once or twice she 
laughed, but it only made me cry. She didn't 
seem to see me either, and when I spoke 
to her it only started her to talk about 
something else, so I watched and watched. I 
didn't pray any more. Somehow all the 
prayer had left my soul. Just before morning 
she got very still, sometimes a rolling sound 
would gurgle in her throat, but when I offered 


her a drink she couldn't swallow, and then 
I called to her — I couldn't stand it any longer 
— * Mother, mother, speak to me. I have always 
loved you, speak to me once,' and her dear 
lips moved and I bent over her, holding my 
breath for fear I would not hear, and she 
whispered : ' Lucille — my — pretty — one,' and 
then her eyes opened and her head fell to one 
side, but she didn't see ; she was dead — dead 
without one word to me, and I loved her so." 

Dido Morgan shared her own scant dinner 
with Maggie that day, and the unhappy girl 
remained at work that she might earn some 
money, which would help towards burying her 

That afternoon foreman Flint came in, 
and, nailing a paper to the elevator shaft, told 
the girls to read it, saying he'd teach them to 
disobey another time, and that next week they 
would work harder for their money. 


In fear and trembling the girls crowded 
timidly about the shaft to read what new 
misery the foreman had in store for them. 
They instinctively felt it was a reduction, and 
the first glance proved their fears were not 

Some of the girls began to cry, and Dido, 
the bravest and strongest, spoke excitedly to 
them of the injustice done them. Even now 
they were working for less than other factories 
were paying. 

" There is surely justice for girls as well as 
men somewhere in the world, if we only 
demand it," she cried, encouragingly. " Let us 
demand our rights. We will all go down, and 
I will tell the proprietor that we cannot live 
under this new reduction. If he promises us 
the old prices, we will return to work. If he 
refuses, we will strike." 

The braver girls heartily joined the scheme, 
and the weaker ones naturally fell in, not 


knowing what else to do under the circum- 
stances, and frightened at their own boldness. 

Dido Morgan, taking little Margaret Wil- 
es ' O c3 

liams by the hand, naturally headed the line, 
and the girls quietly marched after her, two 
by two, down the almost perpendicular stairs. 
Dido stopped before the ground-glass door 
on the first floor, on which was inscribed : 



Her heart beat very quickly, but clasping 
Maggie's hand closer, she opened the door 
and entered. 




Tolman Bike was engaged in conversation 
with foreman Flint when Dido opened the 
door and entered. 

He lifted his head, and never noticing 
Dido, fixed a look of absolute horror on Mag- 
gie Williams's tear-stained and swollen face, as 
he rose pale and trembling and gasped in a 
husky tone : 

" Why do you come to me ?" 

Margaret gazed stupidly at him with her 
small, grey eyes, offering no reply. 

Dido, greatly astonished at Mr. Bike's 
manner, stammered out that she represented 
the girls he employed, who had decided to 


appeal to him not to enforce the proposed 
reduction, as they were already working for 
less than other factories were paying. 

When she began to speak a strange look 
of relief passed over his face and with a pecu- 
liar, nervous laugh, he sat down again. 

■ ■ Get out of this," said he roughly. " If 
you don't like my prices leave them for those 
who do." 

Turning his back to the girls he coolly 
began arranging the papers on his desk. 

When Dido began to plead for justice he 
calmly ordered foreman Flint to " remove 
these young persons." 

"If you do dare touch me, I'll kill you!" 
exclaimed Dido in a rage, as Flint made a 
movement to obey orders. 

He cowered, stepped back and stammered 
an excuse to his employer. He felt the scorch in 
Dido's blazing midnight eyes and he respected 
her warning and his own person. 


Mr. Bike moved quietly to the door and 
holding it open, said : 

" My beauty, you be careful, or that fine 
spirit of yours will get you into trouble some 
of these days." 

Dido gave him a scornful glance as she and 
Maggie walked out, and the door was closed 
behind them. 

She related her failure to the waiting girls, 
and they all went home after promising to be 
there Monday morning to prevent others tak- 
ing their places. They seemed to feel the 
consequence of their own act less than Dido 
and rather welcomed an extra holiday. 

That evening Dido pawned all her furni- 
ture and extra clothes, and the money she 
received for them, added to her savings, went 
towards saving the body of Mrs. Williams 
from the Potter's Field. There was not quite 
enough to pay the undertaker, so Dido was 
forced to borrow the remainder from Blind 


Gilbert, the beggar, who occupied the room in 
the rear of that occupied by the Williamses. 

Monday morning the girls all gathered 
around the entrance to the factory and urged 
the new girls, who came in answer to an adver- 
tisement, not to apply for work and thereby 
injure their chances of making the strike suc- 

Only the foreigners stubbornly refused the 
girls' request, and they applied for and received 
the work which the others had abandoned. 
Tuesday more foreigners were given work, 
and the weaker strikers, getting frightened at 
this, quitted their companions and returned to 
the factory. 

This so enraged the other strikers that 
they waited for the deserters in the evening, 
when they were going home from work. They 
first tried to persuade their weaker companions 
to reconsider their decision and somehow the 
argument ended in a fight. 


Dido Morgan, who was stationed as a 
picket further down the street, came rushing 
up to the struggling, pulling, crying girls, 
hoping to pacify them. 

Almost instantly foreman Flint arrived, ac- 
companied by an officer. Pointing out Dido, 
with a diabolical grin he told the officer to 
arrest her. The now frightened girls fell back 
while the officer dragged Dido away, despite 
her protests. 

That night she spent in the station-house, 
and in the morning she was taken to the 
Essex Market Court, where the Judge, listen- 
ing to the policeman's highly imaginative 
story, asked her what she had to say, and 
though she endeavored to tell the truth, 
hustled her off with " ten days or ten dol- 

Being penniless she was sent to the Island, 
where she spent the most miserable ten days 
of her life. 


But her final release brought her no hap- 
piness or joy. She knew that it was useless 
to return to her bare rooms, because of the 
rent being overdue, and she had no friend but 
Margaret Williams, who had as much as she 
could manage to provide for herself. 

Disheartened; penniless and hungry, she 
spent the day wandering around from one 
place to another, begging for any kind of 
work. At every place they complained of 
having more workers than they needed. 

Night came on and she thought of the 
Christian homes, ostensibly asylums for such 
unfortunate beings as herself. She applied to 
several along Second Avenue and Bleecker 
Street, but she found no refuge in any. They 
were either filled, or because she had no pro- 
fessed religion and had long since quit attend- 
ing church, they barricaded their Christian (?) 
quarters against her. 

The last and only place, in which they 


made no inquiries about religion, they 
charged twenty cents for a bed, and so the 
weary, hungry girl was forced again to go out 
into the darkness. 

She noticed an open door, leading to a dis- 
pensary, on Fourth Avenue, and hiding her- 
self in a dark corner of the hallway there, she 
spent the night, 

In the morning she got a glass of milk and 
a cup of broth in the diet kitchen, and then 
she resumed her search for work. 

It was useless. Tired out and discouraged 
she wandered on and on, until she came to 
the Park. The unhappy girl sought the en- 
ticing shade, where she watched the gay, 
merry people who passed before her. The 
more she saw, the more despondent she be- 
came. They looked so blest, so happy. 

Life gave them everything and gave her 

It began to grow dark, and every one hur- 


ried from the Park. She had no place to go, 
no one to care for her, nothing to live for, and 
she walked further into the Park, helpless, 

How grand it would be to rest for ever- 
more ! 

The thought came and charmed her. 
How sweet, how blessed a long, easy, sense- 
less slumber would be with no pain, no unhap- 
piness, no hunger! 

She noticed the reservoir, she climbed up 
and looked in. Like a bed of velvet the dark 
waters lay quietly before her, and the rough 
darkness of the surrounding country seemed 
to warn her to partake of what was within her 

A great wave of peace welled up in her 
heart, her weariness disappeared in an exqui- 
site languor, which enwrapped her body and 

"'Rest, everlasting rest/ rang soothingly 


in my ears," said Dido, in conclusion, "and 
with a little cry of joy I went to plunge 
in " 

" And I saved you from a very rash deed," 
broke in Dick. " My poor girl, don't you 
know there are hundreds of noble-hearted 
people in New York who are always ready to 
help the unfortunate ? There is charity and 
Christianity in some places." 

" But they are hard to find," said the girl, 
"and they do not exist in so-called benevolent 

" Now, I tell you what we will do," said 
Dick, cordially, lighting a match and looking 
at his watch. " We will first try to find some- 
thing to eat, for I am beastly hungry, and then 
I will take you to your friend, Maggie Wil- 
liams, if you will kindly show the way, and we 
will see what can be done for a young woman 
who gives up so easily." 

To be frank, Richard doubted the girl's 


story. Yet he did not want to act hastily in 
the matter. If the girl had suffered all she 
said, he felt that not only would he gladly help 
her, but Penelope would be delighted to make 
life brighter for the poor victim of fate. So 
he decided to take her to the home of Marga- 
ret Williams, if such a person really existed, 
and learn from others the true story, if what 
she had told him should prove to be false. 

In this Richard showed himself very wise 
for a young man, If it was really a case of 
charity no one would be kinder or more lib- 
eral, but he doubted. 




In a small oyster-house near the Park they 
found something to eat, and Dick also found 
that he had saved the life of a remarkably 
pretty girl. 

At any other time Dick Treadwell would 
have scorned to eat dinner — and such a dinner 
— at such a place. This night he not only ate, 
but enjoyed it. He never noticed the uninvit- 
ing appearance of the big, fat German waiter 
who had, when they first came in, leaned with 
both hands on the table and said briefly, and 
with a rising accent, " Beer ?" 

He slapped his dirty towel over the sticky 


circular spots on the table as Richard ordered 
dinner from a card that looked as if it had 
never served any other purpose than that of 

The waiter went out, after receiving the 
order, carefully closing the door after him. 
The room was evidently meant for small 
parties, for the only thing in it was the table 
and four chairs. 

" Don't you think the room is too warm ?" 
Dick asked, and hardly waiting for his guest's 
reply, he got up and opened wide the door. 

The waiter spread a cotton napkin over the 
table before Dick and Dido Morgan, and set 
some pickles and crackers, and pepper and salt, 
and two little bits of butter, the size and 
shape of a half dollar, on the table ; then he 
brought the clams. 

This done he went out again, very care- 
fully closing the door after him. Richard 
called to him, but he did not answer, so Dick 


got up and opened the door himself. Dido 
Morgan looked at him with an innocent, ques- 
tioning smile. She had no idea that Dick 
could possibly have any other reason for open- 
ing the door, than that it made the room 
cooler. When the waiter come in the next 
time he closed the door. Richard's face 
flushed angrily as he said sternly : 

" I wish that door open. You will please 
leave it so." 

The waiter gave an impudent, almost famil- 
iar grin, but the door was open during the rest 
of the dinner. 

As Dido Morgan sat opposite Dick eating 
daintily but appreciatively, the color came into 
her dark, creamy cheeks, and her brown eyes 
sparkled like the reflection of the sun in a 
still, dark pool. Her loose, damp hair, hang- 
ing in little rings about her broad brow and 
white throat, was very appealing to the artistic 


And her look — it was so frank, so sincere, 
so trusting, and her eyes had such a way of 
looking startled, that Dick felt a warmer thrill 
of interest invade his soul than he ever 
thought possible for any other girl than Pene- 

Before dinner was finished Richard had 
called her " Miss Dido," and " Dido," and she 
had not even thought of resenting it. 

There are a great many false ideas that are 
forgotten in such moments as these. 

The one had seen the other face death, 
and a human feeling had for the time swept 
all false pretenses and hollow etiquette away. 

They drove down to Mulberry Street in a 
coupe, and if such a thing was unusual to the 
young girl whom Richard rescued, it was well 
hidden under a manner of ease that suggested 

" There is where Maggie Williams lived," 
she said, as they turned down Mulberry Street. 


Richard leaned forward, but in the semi-light 
got little idea of the appearance of the place. 

" She may have gone from there by this 
time," Dido continued, showing a slight hesi- 
tation that threatened to shake Dick's not 
over-strong confidence in her. " She lived 
there when I went away, but so many things 
happen in such short time among the poor." 

" Don't stop the driver," she said, quickly, 
as Dick pounded on the glass with the head of 
his walking-stick. "Drive on to the corner. 
It is such an unusual sight to see a carriage 
stop before these houses, that it would likely 
attract a crowd, and you don't want to do 
that ?" 

" Why?" asked Dick, curiously. When he 
could not see her face he liked her less. 

" Well, you look so unlike the people who 
live in this neighborhood, and if you attract 
notice, you might find it a very uncomfortable 
place for an elegant young man to be in at 


almost midnight," Dido Morgan said, with a 
light laugh ; then, taking matters into her own 
hands, she opened the door of the coupe, and 
called the driver to stop. 

Richard had no sooner dismissed the driver 
than he regretted it. He again felt the old 
mistrust of the strange girl, and recollections 
of tales he had read of female trappers and 
the original snares they lay for their victims 
returned forcibly to his mind. 

He felt he was a fool to come here at 
night, but he was ashamed to go back now. 
The night was warm and the heat had driven 
many of the people out of the tenements in 
search of a breath of air, and the dark groups 
of silent men and women who filled the door- 
steps and basement entrances and curbstones, 
and the ill-favored people who passed them 
offered Dick little hope for succor, if indeed 
he was the victim of a plot. 

There were no policemen to be seen any- 


where, although Dick knew the police head- 
quarters were not far distant. 

Quietly he walked beside the girl, who, too, 
had grown silent. He scorned to confess his 
fears, and he felt a determination to meet 
what there might be waiting for him, even if it 
be death, before he would weaken and retreat. 

The girl entered the doorway of a dark, 
dilapidated house, the only doorway which 
had no lounger, a fact in itself suspicious to 
Dick. He, with many misgivings and a 
decided palpitation of the heart, stumbled on 
the step as he started to follow. 

Had he done right and was he safe in 
trusting and following this clever girl ? 

Before he had time to decide she caught 
his hand and led him into the dark hall. 

A little weak thought, that doubtless hold- 
ing his hand was part of the plan to give him 
less chance for self-defense, flashed through 
his mind. 


Gropingly he put forth his other hand, and 
a thrill of horror shot through him like an 
electric shock as it came in contact with a 
man's coat and a warm, yielding body. 




" Did you run against something ?" asked 
Dido, as she felt Richard start. 

" It's only me," said a deep bass voice, 
which had such an honest and harmless ring, 
that Richard's fear and nervousness dropped 
from him like a cloak. 

" It's all right," Dido responded cheerfully, 
as she stopped and knocked on a door. 

Dick knew it was a door from the sound, 
but he was unable to distinguish door from 
wall in the darkness. 

It was opened by some one inside. Dick 


saw the outlines of a girlish figure between 
himself and the light, and heard a surprised 
exclamation : " Why, Dido !" 

They stepped in, and the girl closed the 
door and hastened to set chairs for her visi- 

"Mr. Treadwell, this is Margaret Will- 
iams," said Dido ; then turning to Maggie she 
added, simply, " Mr. Treadwell has been kind 
to me." 

" We were frightened about you," Maggie 
said, her eyes beaming warmly on Dido. " I 
heard you got in trouble 'round at the shop. 
I went out to look you up, but I couldn't find 
out anything about you either at the station- 
house or at your house." 

" I s'pose you know," she added, " that the 
girls went in ? Yes, the strike is off. They 
wouldn't take me back, so I'm doing what I 
can for Blind Gilbert, and he pays rent and 
buys what we eat." 


Dido, in a few simple words, frankly told 
Maggie all that had befallen her since her 
arrest. She did not omit her rash attempt to 
commit suicide, and Richard's timely interven- 

Meanwhile Richard had taken a glance 
about the little bare room. 

A plain, single-board table, covered with a 
bit of badly worn oilcloth, had been pulled out 
into the room, and they now sat around it. 
A little low oil lamp, with a broken chimney 
— which had been patched with a scrap of 
paper — was the only light in the room. Dick 
carefully slipped a paper bill under the news- 
paper which lay on the table where Margaret 
had flung it when she came to open the door 
for them. 

A small stove stood close to the wall, and 
on it was a tin coffee-pot and an iron tea-kettle 
with a broken spout. 

Above the stove was a little shelf, which 


held some tallow candles in a jar, and some 
upturned flat-irons. 

The bed looked very unsafe and uncom- 
fortable. It was covered with a gayly colored 
calico patchwork quilt. The patchwork was 
made in some set pattern, which was unlike 
anything Richard had ever seen or dreamed 

Several pieces of as many carpets lay on 
the floor, and a much worn blanket was hung 
on two nails over the window, to take the place 
of a shade or curtain. 

Dick's heart ached at the evident signs of 
poverty, and a warm instinct of protection 
possessed him. 

" I hope you will allow me to be of some 
assistance to you," he said, when the girls, 
having finished their confessions, became 
silent. " I think I can, in a few days, assure 
Miss Dido of a better position than the one 
she has lost/' 


As he spoke, there came a timid knock on 
the door, and Maggie sprang to open it. 

" I jest thought I'd drop in tew see how 
you wuz gettin' along, Maggie," said from 
the darkness the same deep bass voice that 
had restored Richard's courage in the hall- 

It was followed by a tall, lank man, who 
awkwardly held a black, soft felt hat in his 
big red hands. His rough clothes seemed to 
hang on him, and he held one shoulder higher 
than the other in an apologetic manner, as if 
to assure the world that his towering above 
the average height of people was neither his 
fault nor desire. His bushy and unattrac- 
tive dust-colored hair seemed determined to 
maintain the stiffness which its owner lacked. 
His red mustache and chin-whiskers were 
resolved to out-bristle his hair. His shaggy 
eyebrows overhung modest blue eyes that 
looked at if they fain would draw beneath 


those brows as a turtle draws its head under 
its shell. 

He bashfully greeted Dido, and she 
introduced him to Richard as " Mr. Martin 
Shanks, who boards with some friends up- 
stairs." He held out his big hand to Dick, 
saying : 

" Glad to make yer acquaintance, sir !" all 
the while blushing vividly. 

" We ran against you in the hall, I think," 
ventured Dido. 

" Yes, I was standin' there when you came," 
he answered, slowly, shooting a glance from 
under his brows at Maggie. 

Maggie looked down, and Dido was sur- 
prised to see her blush. She would have 
been more surprised if Maggie had told her 
that this great, big, hulking man had stood 
guard at her door every night since her mother 

"I should jedge you don't belong to this 


yer neighborhood," he remarked to Richard, 
shooting forth a jealous look. 

"You are correct," replied Richard, pleas- 

" What might yer business be ?" he de- 
manded further, nervously turning his hat. 

" Down here, or my professional employ- 
ment ?" asked Richard, waking up. 

"What do ye do fer a livin ?" 

4< Oh ! I see. I'm a lawyer," Dick replied, 

" A lawyer, eh ? An' I take it as yer not a 
married man, else ye wouldn't be payin' atten- 
tions to this ere orphan girl." 

"You don't understand," Maggie inter- 
rupted, startled. " Dido was in trouble and 
Mr. Treadwell found her and brought her 

" Martin should mind his own business," 
exclaimed Dido, indignantly. " If this was my 
house I would show him the door. 


" Not on my account," interposed Dick, 
warmly. " If Mr. Shanks is a friend of the 
family he has a right to know the reason of a 
stranger being here." 

" These young girls 'ere, sir," explained 
frightened Martin Shanks, " have no parints 
to take care on them, an' I says to meself, 
when Mis' Williams wuz a lyin' dead here, 
that I'd see no harm come aninst them while 
I wuz about." 

" That was very good of you, Mr. Shanks," 
cordially replied Dick, and then, bidding the 
girls good night, he left. Martin Shanks, 
wishing to see the stranger well out of the 
neighborhood before he quit his post of 
guardianship for the remainder of the night, 
accompanied Dick as far as Broadway, and 
Dick was not sorry to have his escort. 




When next Richard went to Mulberry 
Street, it was to notify Dido Morgan of a 
position he had secured for her with a promi- 
nent photographer. Her duties would be 
light and not unpleasant, as she was merely 
required to take charge of the reception room. 

Dido was delighted ; nothing could have 
suited her better. Before her father died, she 
had devoted a great deal of time and study to 
sketching, and now this work seemed as 
though it might lead her nearer to her old 

While Richard was talking to the girls he 
heard a scraping noise in the hall, and pres- 


ently the door opened, and an old man, with 
such a decided roundness of the shoulders that 
it was almost a hump, felt with his cane the 
way before him and apparently finding every- 
thing all right entered and closed the door. 
A little, short-tailed, spotted dog, with a world 
of affection bound up in his black-and-white 
hide, slid in beside the man's uncertain legs, 
and now stood wiggling his body with a 
wiggle that bespoke affection for the man. 

" Maggie, is you ready for me and Fritz ?" 
he asked, timidly, 

"Yes, Gilbert," she replied, gently, and she 
went to him and guided his uncertain feet to a 
chair which stood before the table. 

"The young gentleman who was so good 
to Dido is here," she explained, and he lifted 
his head quickly as if he would like to see. 
At this, Richard very thoughtfully came for- 
ward and taking the old man's shaking hand, 
gave it a warm pressure. 


" I'm glad to know you, sir," Blind Gilbert 
said, deferentially. " May be you know me, 
sir. It's sixteen years this coming August 
since I've had a stand on Broadway. I don't 
do much business, but I'm thankful for all I 
have. The Lord, in all this mercy, seen fit to 
afflict me, but he never let old Gilbert starve." 

" How did you lose your sight ?" Richard 
asked awkardly, not wishing to express any 
opinion concerning the mercy of making a 
man blind. 

" Well, it came very sudden like. I had a 
little shop in this very room, sir, and I lived 
in the one back, where I've lived ever since 1 
lost my shop. I done a good business, as I 
had done ever since me and me old woman 
came out from Ireland, these forty years ago. 
Me old woman fell sick and after running up a 
long doctor bill, she died, the Lord bless her 
soul, for if we had our fights, she was a good wo- 
man to me. One mornin' after she had been 


put in her grave, I started out to go across 
Mulberry Street. The sun was shinin' bright 
when I started out the door and it was as fine 
a mornin' as I ever seen. When I got to the 
middle of the street, everything got as dark as 
night and I yelled for help. They took me to 
the doctor's but he said I had gone blind and 
nothing could help me. Then they took me 
to a hospital, and after a while I could see 
some light with one eye, but then it left and 
they said nothing could be done. I couldn't 
stay shut up, so I came back. Me little shop 
was gone and everything I owned, so I got a 
license and went on to Broadway and begged 
until I got enough to rent the back room 
again and there I've lived ever since." 

" Does what you get pay all your expen- 
ses ?" Richard asked. 

" The city gives me forty dollars a year, and 
I manage to makeenough with that to keep me." 

Maggie took a newspaper off the table 


which disclosed beneath it the table spread for 
a simple meal. She took a bit of fried steak 
and some fried potatoes from the oven and set 
them before Gilbert. 

Richard felt somewhat embarrassed and 
started to leave, but they all urged him so 
warmly to stay that he sat down again. When 
Maggie poured out Gilbert's coffee, she offered 
a cup of it to Dick. He, fearing to hurt her 
feelings by refusing to partake of what she 
had made, accepted the great thick cup. It 
was the worst dose Dick ever took. He tried 
to maintain an air of enjoyment, but he found 
it impossible to prevent his face drawing very 
stiff and grave when he tried to swallow the 
horrible stuff. 

" Won't you have some more coffee ? 
This is warmer," Maggie asked, as Dick at 
last set the cup down. 

" No, no," he answered, thickly, but most 


Maggie gave him a startled, inquiring look, 
and poor Richard felt himself blush as he 
endeavored to swallow the mouthful of coffee- 
grains he got with the last of the coffee. 
Finding this unpleasant as well as impracticable, 
he disposed of them as best he could in his 
handkerchief and hastened to reassure her. 

" I never, never drink coffee until after 
dinner," he said, earnestly, " and only broke 
my usual rule on this occasion because you 
made it." 

He gave her a smile with this pretty 
speech ; while it was not exactly what his 
pleased smiles usually were, it made Maggie 
blush with pleasure. 

The spotted dog, having swallowed his 
food after the manner of people at railway 
stations, came rubbing and sniffling around 
Richard's knee in a very friendly spirit. 

" Fine dog, sir, Fritz is," blind Gilbert 
said, hearing the dog's sounds. " Gettin' old, 


though, like the old man. Now, Mag', child, 
— she's me 'dopted daughter, sir, I never had 
no children of me own— if you're ready, me 
girl, we'll start for me place of business." 

Maggie put on her hat and fastened a 
chain to Fritz's collar, and then giving Richard 
a little smile, took blind Gilbert by the hand 
and led him out. 

" Maggie is very wretched about her sister 
Lucille," said Dido, confidentially, when left 
alone with Dick. " She went away two weeks 
before Mrs. Williams died, and she hasn't 
come back yet." 

" Did she say that she would be away for 
any time?" Richard asked, with a show of 
interest that he was far from feeling. He was 
rather weary of troublesome girls just then. 

"No, that's it," eagerly. "They hadn't 
any idea that she wasn't coming home." 

" Indeed ! Where had she gone ?" 


" They don't even know that. She said 
she was going out to do some extra work." 

" What kind of work ?" 

" She was a typewriter and a stenographer," 
Dido explained, "and in the evenings she 
used to get extra work. This night she went 
to work, but she did not come back, and 
Maggie worries over it." 

" I should think she would," Richard re- 
plied kindly. " Why didn't Maggie go to her 
sister's employer? Probably he could throw 
some light on the subject." 

" She did go to him, and he said Lucille 
had asked for two weeks' vacation, which he 
had given her, and Maggie didn't want to tell 
him that Lucille had gone out to do some ex- 
tra work, for fear he wouldn't like it. He paid 
her by the week, and didn't know she did 
outside work. Maggie thought then she 
would be back, but now it is five weeks and 
she hasn't come back yet." 


" And poor mother loved her so," added 
Maggie huskily, as she re-entered the room, 
having left Blind Gilbert on his corner. 

" Do you think we could do anything to- 
wards finding her ?" Dido asked eagerly. 

" I hardly see what you could do, unless 
you notify the police and advertise for her," 
Dick replied, listlessly. He had enough girls 
on his mind now, with Penelope, the Park 
Mystery girl and Dido, and he did not feel 
anxious to add another to his already too 
large list. He felt satisfied to look after 
Penelope, and was desirous of assuming sole 
charge of her, but did not want any more. 

" I should say that she had received a 
better position somewhere, and that you will 
hear from her before long," Dick added, en- 

" Oh, she would surely send for her 
clothes if she had," Dido said, earnestly. 
" If you will tell us what to do — what is the 


best thing — we will try to do it ; Maggie is so 
anxious to find her." 

" I can easily do for you all that can be 
done," Dick replied. " If you can give me a 
description of her, I will send it to Police 
Headquarters and have them search for her." 

" She was slender, and had a lovely white 
complexion and blue eyes, and black hair," 
Dido began, Richard writing it in a little note- 

" Was she tall or short ?" he asked, pausing 
for a reply. 

" About my height— don't you think so, 
Maggie? I'm five feet four and one-half 

" How was she dressed?' 

" She had on her black alpaca dress, and 
wore a round black turban, with a bunch of 
green grass on the back of it," said Dido. 

" And she carried her light jacket along to 
wear home, 'cause mother thought it would be 


cold," Maggie said, helping Dido along. 
" Lucille always had nicer dresses than I 
had. She was twenty-one, though she didn't 
look it. I am older than she is." 




Richard Treadwell sent a description of 
Maggie Williams' missing sister to the police 
authorities, and also inserted a cautious but 
alluring personal in all the leading news- 
papers ; still the missings Lucille did not 
return, and nothing was heard of her. 

" My God, what it is to be poor!" Richard 
mused one morning as he walked up Broad- 
way. " Why, the glimpses I get during my 
visits to Mulberry Street, of the trials and 
privations the poor endure, makes me heart- 
sick. There's Gilbert, blind and helpless, 
forced to spend his time on a Broadway cor- 
ner begging his living. Sitting there waiting 


for people to give him pennies, and yet he 
doesn't want to die. Why, he clings to life as 
if he had the wealth of Monte Cristo. And 
all those untidy, unhappy women down there, 
with peevish, crying, dirty children, live on in 
their garrets and cellars, for what ? 

" They have no pleasures, no happiness, 
no comfort, and they are raising families to 
live out the same miserable existence. Ugh ! 

" And there are Maggie and Dido ! They 
live in that miserable, God-forsaken room, and 
haven't a decent-looking dress to their backs. 
There are no drives, no jewels, no pretty 
dresses, no fond petting for them, yet, bless 
their brave hearts, they are more cheerful than 
most girls I know who live on the Avenue. 
Dido is happy now that she has work, and 
Maggie would be happy if it wasn't for her 
absent sister. By Jove, I respect those girls. 
I admire their spirit, and if I don't find 
Maggie's sister it won't be my fault. It's just 


as easy to solve the mystery of two girls, as it 
is to solve the mystery of one," he thought, 
with grim humor, as he had made no progress 
in either case. 

" I haven't the least doubt that Maggie's 
sister, tiring of the poverty at home, found 
snugger quarters and is sticking to them. If I 
only knew what she looked like I would likely 
run across her in some of my rounds. New 
York is a very little place to those that go 
abotit. I'll wager if I knew that girl, and she 
was running around, I'd meet her inside of 
three evenings. If I could only identify 

her By Jove ! I have it. I'll get Dido, 

who knows the girl, and I'll take her to the 
places where we are likely to meet the missing 
sister. Whew ! Why didn't I think of it 
before ? If I don't know all about her inside 
of a week I'll think — well, I'll find the little 
scamp, that's all." 

Delighted with his new scheme, Richard 


cut across Twenty-fourth Street and went into 
the Hoffman House bar-room. Without stop- 
ping he went through to the office, where he 
wrote and sent a note to Dido, asking her to 
take dinner with him that evening. Then he 
walked back to the bar to congratulate him- 
self — after the manner of his sex — for tak- 
ing the road, whose way, he thought, led to 

Richard stood before the famous bar and 
marvelled how daylight seemed to rob the 
room of half its fascination. The men of the 
world, the men of fashion, the outlandish 
youth of dudedom, the be-diamonded actor 
and bejewelled men whose modes of life 
would ill bear investigation, had all fled with 
the night. 

The Flemish tapestry looked dull, and the 
exquisite Eve was a less glaring white, and 
seemed to have lost expression in a new- 
found modesty, and the nymphs and satyr 


looked dull and tired. How different from 
the hours when the gas brought beautiful col- 
ors into the cut-glass pendants on the chande- 
liers, and everything seemed awake and alive 
where now they slept. The bartenders 
looked dull and uninterested, and a man who 
stood alone at the bar drank as if he had noth- 
ing else to do. 

He was a low, heavy-set man, dressed 
handsomely. He wore a black beard and 
mustache, and his small, black, bright eyes 
critically surveyed, across his high nose, the 
handsome and genial Richard. He set down 
an empty whiskey glass from which he had 
just been drinking, and, after taking a swallow 
of ice water, he remarked, in a voice perfectly 
void of emotion: 

" I beg your pardon, but do you know that 
you are being ' shadowed '?" 

" I knew they were after me some days 
ago, but I thought they had given me up," 


Dick said, laughingly. " What do you know 
about it ?" 

" I saw a man dog after you to the office 
when you first went through, and when you 
returned he came after you and went on out 
the side door. He'll be on the watch for you 
when you go out," he continued, in that even, 
passionless voice. 

"You are very kind," Dick said, gratefully, 
"to warn me of the fellow." 

" The game was too easy, if you didn't 
know," he said, with a malicious grin. " I only 
wanted to give the fellow some work — make 
him earn his money. You can both work at 
the same game now." 

"You are very kind," Dick repeated, 
mechanically. He had a faint impression that 
the stranger had warned him of his followers 
more with malicious motives than with any 
feeling of good will, still the next moment he 


felt ashamed of harboring such a thought 
against the man. 

" If you care to know the fellow, I'll walk 
out with you and point him out," the man 
offered gruffly, still with a gleam in his eyes 
which showed that the expected discomfort of 
the two men afforded him if not exactly pleas- 
ure, at least, amusement. 

" Thank you. Won't you join me first ?" 
asked Dick. " What will you have? Whis- 
key " — to the bartender. " I am very much 
obliged for your kindness, and if I can ever be 
of any service to you, command me," and the 
impulsive Dick took his card case from his 
pocket and handed one of the rectangular bits 
of pasteboard to the man just as they both 
lifted their glasses. 

The stranger glanced at the name and 
turned ghastly pale. His glass fell from his 
nerveless fingers to the floor with a crash, and 
he leaned heavily against the mahogany bar. 




One evening Mr. Richard Treadwell found 
the following letter awaiting him when he 
went to his rooms to dress for dinner. 

"Washington, June Third, 18 — . 
" Dear Dick : 

" I am glad to say our prolonged visit 
has drawn to a close, and to-morrow we return 
to dear old New York and — Dick. I wonder 
how much we have been missed. You cannot 
imagine how anxious I am to see you. I feel 
sure that you are ready to tell me all about 
the poor dead girl. 


" You can't imagine how I feel about her. 
Auntie says I am morbid and depressed. 
When I go to bed at night and close my eyes 
I can see her again lying before us, her masses 
of golden hair, her pretty little hands, her 
delicate clothes, and I can't ^go to sleep for 
wondering whose darling she was and how she 
came to stray so far away from home and that 
they never found her. 

" I firmly believe she eloped with some 
rascal who tired of her at last and murdered 
her to free himself. 

44 When will you solve this unhappy 
mystery ? 

" Your short, unsatisfactory letters, I have 
felt all along, were a mere blind to keep me 
from suspecting the surprising story you have 
in reserve for me. 

" If you have been wasting your time in 
being devoted to some of the many girls who 
used to attract your attention, and neglecting 


the Park mystery case, I feel that I can never 
forgive you. 

" I forgot to tell you in my last that we 
met Clara Chamberlain and her mother here. 
They came over for a day to arrange with 
their lawyers something about Clara's Wash- 
ington property. Clara confessed to me that 
the report which was published awhile ago 
concerning her engagement was true. You 
remember none of us credited it at the time. 
Well, it is true, and the wedding is to be 
celebrated privately on the seventh. Auntie 
is to go and I promised Clara I would be 
there. Will this not be rather a blow to your 
friend Chauncey Osborne ? 

" Her fiance, I believe, is quite unknown 
in our set. You know how very peculiar dear 
Clara always was ! She, of course, says that 
he is charming and a man of culture and 
ability, a prominent politician and bound to 
make a stir in the world. 


" Auntie met an old friend here, Mr. 
Schuyler, who went to school with auntie. 
They have been living their school-days over 
again — it seems they were boy and girl lovers 
—and to hear them laugh over the things 
they used to do makes me laugh from very 

" Do you know, girls don't have half the 
fun now that they did in auntie's day. I will 
never be able, when I get to be an old woman, 
to sit down and recall with a playmate the 
funny scrapes we got into when we were 
children. When I hear auntie and Mr. 
Schuyler talk, I feel so sorry that my life has 
been so common-place. 

" But there — I have written four times as 
much as you did in your last. Mr. Schuyler 
is going over to New York with us, and we 
are going to show him about. He has not 
been there since he was a boy. 


* Hoping you have been a good boy dur- 
ing my absence, I am, 

" Very sincerely your (s), 

" Penelope." 

1 Richard Treadwell, Esqre., 
" ' The Washington,' 

" New York City." 
? I forgot to say that Clara's fiancee, I 
have been told, is the sole proprietor of some 
kind of a factory downtown which assures him 
quite a nice income. His name is Tolman 
Bike. Did you ever hear of him ?" 

" The name sounds familiar to me," 
thought Dick, as he folded the letter and put 
it in his pocket. "Still I do not remember 
ever knowing such a person. Probably I re- 
collect it, from reading that notice of Clara's 
engagement, although I had forgotten the whole 


Dick Treadwell was not feeling very easy. 
He longed for Penelope's return, yet he 
dreaded it, knowing that he had no progress 
to report in the task she had imposed upon 
him. He had thought she would be pleased 
with his conduct in regard to Dido Morgan 
and Maggie Williams, but when she had 
expressed a hope that he had not been devot- 
ing himself to girls and wasting the time that 
belonged to the work he had undertaken, he 
felt a little dubious as to the way in which she 
would receive any account of the part he took 
with the poor girls whom he wished to befriend. 

Isn't the matter of likes and dislikes a 
strange thing ?" Dick asked, when, an hour 
later, he and Dido Morgan were dining 
together. He refilled the glasses which stood 
by their plates. " This is very good wine, 
don't you think ? Let me help you to some 
spaghetti. I have often wondered why at first 


meeting we conceive a regard for some people 
and a dislike for others. 

" You remember the incident I related to* 
you the first, or rather the second time you 
dined with me, of the man I met in the Hoff- 
man House who warned me that I was 
shadowed. Well, I have run across him sev- 
eral times since. I have the strangest feeline 
for him, and he apparently dislikes me. I 
can't say that I like him, but I have such a 
desire to be with and near him that I can't 
say I dislike him either. By Jove, I was 
surprised when he fell against the bar that 
day and looked so miserably ill. I thought 
at first it was the sight of my name that 
affected him, but he assured me that it was 
a spasm of the heart, a chronic complaint of 

" What was his name ?" asked Dido, break- 
ing off a bit of bread. She was growing pret- 
tier every day since Richard had secured a 


position for her, and to-night she was bewitch* 
ing in a new gray cloth gown. 

" Clark, he said ; I think I asked him for 
it," said Dick, laughing. 

" You don't seem to have tired of going 
around to all sorts of restaurants," he con- 
tinued, noticing the happy expression on Dido's 
pretty face. 

" Tired of it I' 

Her tone but faintly expressed what 
untold happiness those evenings had been to 

" I thought you would be disgusted with 
our search before it was half finished," he said, 
looking admiringly into her soft brown eyes 
that had given him one of those startled 
glances which half bewitched him. 

"It has been heaven!" she said, with a 
sigh of rapture. " I love the bright lights, 
and the well-dressed, happy people, and the 
busy, silent waiters, and the white linen and 


the fine dishes. Oh, I think people who can 
take their dinners out all the time must be 
very, very happy." 

" You would not think so if you were a 
poor, forlorn man," he said, smiling at her 
enthusiasm, " and had to dine out three hun- 
dred and sixty-five times a year, not count- 
ing breakfast and luncheon. I've started 
out evenings and I've stopped on Broadway 
and wondered where on earth I should eat. 
Delmonico's, St. James, Hoffman, all are old 
stories, clear down the list. Here I had 
luncheon, there probably I had breakfast, the 
other place I dined last night or the night 
before, and at last I turn down some cross 
street, and go into a cheap place where a fel- 
low can't get a mouthful that it doesn't gag 
him, so I'll have an appetite to-morrow. I 
hate the sight of a bill of fare and I get so 
that I'll fool around for half an hour until 
some man near me orders, and then I order 


the same thing. I tell you its dreadful not to 
know where to eat." 

" I suppose that is the reason some men 
marry ?" she asked, brightly. 

"Well, not exactly," he said, flushing 

" Do the people you see in the restaurants 
never interest you ?" Dido asked, seeing he 
had become silent. 

"No, I never notice them unless it is 
some one with loud dress or manners, and then 
I watch them as I watch a lot of monkeys in a 

" Every place I go I see some one interest- 
ing," Dido said, slowly. " Look at that fat 
woman over there, in the cherry-red dress and 
hat. See how proud that little dark man 
looks of having such a woman with him. I 
have heard her tell him of her former great 
triumphs as an actress, and I can imagine a 
story of her life. See that slender, pretty, 


dark-eyed girl, with very white brow, and very 
red cheeks, and very dark shadows about her 
eyes, and very, very golden hair. See her 
smile and talk to that insipid-looking man, 
with an enormous nose and bald head and eye- 
glasses, whose ' villain's mustache,' carries 
a sample of everything he had for dinner. 
Now can't you picture that pretty girl is some 
ballet girl ambitious to rise. He, a man of 
means and influence, and she forgets his looks 
and that he talks through his nose, and tries 
to impress him with her ability." 

" Hum !" said Richard, giving Dido a 
strange smile. " I'm afraid my imagination 
is not as great or as charitable as yours. 
Tell me what you think of the party to our 

" That poor little man without legs ?" 
asked Dido, quick tears coming to her eyes. 
" He has a bright, happy face though, and he 
has diamonds — many of them, on his fingers. 


I think that large woman who sits beside him 
and looks into his eyes so affectionately, loves 
him very much because of his affliction. I'm 
sure I would. And that man and woman 
opposite, though I don't like their looks, seem 
to heed every word he says and to be very 
fond of him." 

Richard laughed softly. 

" Well, Dido, I don't want to spoil your 
dream, but that little man has a brain that is far 
out of proportion to his weak and dwarfed body. 
He stands at the head of his profession, and 
has accumulated wealth by his industry and 
ability. Quite a reproach to us worthless 
fellows, who were born with legs. I have a 
great admiration for him, but those people 
with him neither care for him for his ability or 
his affliction. They are not of that kind." 

" What then ?" asked Dido, in distress. l 

" Money — money, child. It's the story 
you could read at almost every table here. 


That's why I don't allow my imagination any 
liberty in restaurants. Your eyes have not 
yet tried the worldly glasses which experience 
has put on mine. And .now, while we drink 
our coffee, let us talk about Maggie's sis- 

A girl came through, trying to sell some 
badly assorted flowers, and a black and yellow 
bird in a cage, high above their heads, thrusts 
his long beak and head through the wires and, 
impudently twisting his head to see what was 
taking place below him, gave vent at intervals 
to a shrill, defiant cry. 

Meanwhile, Richard lighted a cigarette and 
resumed the conversation. 

" I think it is useless to hunt for Maggie's 
sister any longer. We have made a pretty 
thorough search of the resorts where I thought 
we were likely to meet her. I confess I am 
disappointed. I was sure we would run across 
her somewhere, and that you would recognize 


her. Do you think it is possible for you not 
to recognize her ?" 

" No, indeed ! I'd recognize Lucille Wil- 
liams anywhere," Dido replied, earnestly. 

" My private opinion — don't tell Maggie — 
is, that she tired of her family and home and 
that she took herself to better quarters and 
means to keep them in ignorance of her where- 
abouts, fearing they would ask her to give 
towards their support." 

" I hardly think Lucille was as heartless as 
that," thoughtfully replied Dido. "She was 
vain and fond of dressing, but I don't think 
she would be as mean as that." 

" What were her habits ?" asked Dick. 

" Habits ? What she did regularly ? 
Well, she used to go to Coney Island and 
Rockaway and such places in the Summer, with 
some boys she met in the places she worked, 
but after she got work in the office at the fac- 
tory where we worked, she got very steady 


and she wouldn't go out with anybody any 
more. The nights she went out she went to 
do extra work." 

'•How did she get along with your em- 
ployer ? You gave me the impression that he 
was very brutal," Dick said, musingly. 

" Oh, Lucille got along splendidly with 
him. I always thought he was horrible, but 
she never said anything about him. She was 
very easy-natured, anyway, and I have a bad 
temper," said Dido, in a shamefaced way. 

" How did he like her, do you know ?" 

"Who? Tolman Bike?" asked Dido, 

" Tolman Bike ? Why " — stammered 

" He was the proprietor, you know, and 
Lucille was his stenographer," exclaimed Dido. 
" I don't know what he thought of her, for 
Lucille didn't talk much ; but she seemed to 
get along well enough." 


Dido became silent, as Richard was inttnt 
on his own thoughts. 

Tolman Bike was the name of the man who 
was to marry Clara Chamberlain. 

Tolman Bike was also the name of the 
employer of Lucille and Maggie Williams and 
Dido Morgan. 

Tolman Bike, Miss Chamberlain's fiancee, 
was the proprietor of a down-town factory, so 
it must be one and the same man. 

Well, and if so, could it be possible that 
Tolman Bike, the man who was engaged to 
marry a banker's daughter, could have been 
in love with Lucille Williams, a poor stenog- 
rapher, and persuaded her to leave her home 
for him ? 

Richard was a young man, and the idea 
was not a surprising one to him. According 
to what he could learn, the dark-haired stenog- 
rapher was fond of the things she could little 
afford to possess, and it was likely that her 


employer, knowing her desires, made it possi- 
ble for her to gratify them. 

Now that he was to marry, he would not 
be likely to hold out any inducement for the 
girl to stay with him, and if they should hap- 
pen across her now it was possible that she 
would gladly return to the humble home of 
her sister. 

Still, supposing Tolman Bike had found 
no attraction for him in the stenographer ? 
It was a very delicate thing to handle, consid- 
ering that Richard's knowledge was mostly 

" Do you think that Maggie's sister really 
worked those nights she was away from 
home ?" Dick asked Dido. 

" She always brought extra money home, 
which proved she did," Dido replied posi- 

" Did she ever talk about Tolman Bike ?" 

" Never, except when she mentioned that 


he had dictated more work than usual, or some- 
thing of that kind." 

" Well, I believe that Tolman Bike can tell 
me something about Maggie's sister," Richard 
said. Dido looked at him with a smile of 
doubt. " If she is not with him, he can tell 
me who she is with, and that is just as well. 
I must see him immediately. I have no time 
to lose, for three days from to-morrow he is to 
be married." 




But Tolman Bike was not easily found. 

Richard Treadwell got up early and went 
to the box factory, only to be told that Mr. 
Bike, suffering from ill-health, had gone out of 
the city for a time. 

The people in charge of the shop either 
feigned ignorance or did not know when he 
was to return, but Dick knew, in view of Mr. 
Bike's approaching marriage, on the evening 
of the 7th, that he could not be absent from 
the city more than two days at the very most. 

But one thing he determined on. He 
would see Tolman Bike before his marriage to 
Miss Chamberlain, and for Maggie Williams's 


sake he would know the whereabouts of her 
sister. And also for Maggie's sake would he 
do what he could for the sister to induce her 
to return to her home. 

In the meantime Richard intended to make 
an extra effort to learn something about the 
Park mystery girl. 

He drove to the Morgue, and after some 
persuasion he got the bundle of clothes the 
pretty dead girl had worn when found in the 

He took the gloves and gown and left the 
remaining articles with the keeper. 

He decided from the appearance of the 
dress that it had been made at some expensive 
establishment. He further decided that he 
would make a round of the fashionable dress- 
making places and see if some one in them 
would not be able to recognize the work. 

If they recognized the work, tracing the 
owner home should be very easy, he thought. 


He took the gloves also, but like the dress, 
they had no mark that would assist him in his 

After trying several glove stores he aban- 
doned this as impracticable, for no one claimed 
the gloves as having been bought from them, 
and even if they had known the gloves were 
from their stock, it would have been impossi- 
ble to tell who bought them. 

Carefully he made a tour of the fashionable 
dressmakers. He felt dreadfully embarrassed 
as he entered the different establishments with 
the large parcel in his arms. The women in 
waiting, as well as the women customers, 
looked at him curiously, and when he asked, 
in a hesitating way, to see the proprietor or 
the forewoman, he could hardly endure the 
amused smiles of those who were eagerly list- 
ening to hear him state his business. 

He thought all sorts of things which made 
him uncomfortable. First, the idea came to 


him that they would think he had brought a 
dress to be made to wear in amateur theatri- 
cals, or at a masquerade. But that was not 
half as bad as to imagine they thought he had 
a wife who was displeased with a dress which 
she had returned by him. 

The worst part of all was, when he showed 
the crumpled gown to the persons in charge 
and inquired if they had made it, to have them 
first show surprise at the unusual proceeding, 
then quiet indignation when they found that 
if Richard had a secret concerning the gown 
he meant to keep it, and when he guarded 
well his reasons for such a strange visit they 
bowed him out with such an air of injured 
dignity that Richard felt very small and 

There were a few that instead of assuming 
an injured air, laughed at Richard, and one 
familiarly asked him if his wife refused to tell 
where she got it. 


The majority of the dressmakers denied 
the gown so emphatically that Richard began 
to have a dim idea that the workmanship was 
not so fine as had been thought and that the 
dress had come from a humbler shop. He, 
not being a woman, did not know that one 
dressmaker never saw any good in another 
dressmaker's work. 

When he reached the last establishment of 
any note and importance it was almost dinner 
time. There were no customers about, and 
the employees were making preparations for 
closing the shop. A girl came forward and 
politely asked Richard his business. 

He told her he wished to see whoever had 
charge of the place. Requesting him to be 
seated she left soon to return with a man. 

Richard felt more comfortable than he had 
all day. He explained to the man, who lis- 
tened kindly and politely, showing neither 
surprise nor curiosity, that he wished to find 


the persons who had made the gown he had 
with him, in order to find out who had paid for 
the dress and where it had been delivered. 

The man took the gown and went to the 
workroom. Later he returned and went in- 
side the small office. 

Richard waited impatiently, and for the 
first time a hope of solving the mystery of 
Central Park entered his heart. Surely when 
the man took so much time he had discovered 

Still Richard tried to keep his expectations 
from running away, lest he be compelled to 
suffer a severe disappointment ; so when the 
man came towards him with the crumpled 
gown flung across his arm Richard offered the 
consolation to himself that he had still left 
for his inquiry the less fashionable dress- 

" The dress was made here," the man said. 
Dick's pulse started off at. a two-minute gait. 


" A letter was sent here containing an 
order for a dress. The measurements were 
inclosed and with them over half the price of 
the dress in bills. The letter stated that the 
person for whom it was intended was out of 
town, and that in ten days the dress would be 
called for. 

" We often have customers order dresses 
from a distance," the man continued, " and we 
make them from measure. Ten days after- 
wards a messenger boy came in with an order 
for us to receipt for the price of the dress and 
a $100 bill, from which I took the rest of the 
price and gave him the dress and the change." 

" Have you the letter that was sent you 
with the measurements and order ?" asked 
Richard, with a calmness that covered his 

" No. The boy said he must have the 
letter containing the measurements, and I sent 
up to the forewoman in the workroom. She 


had transferred the order to her book, but 
had the letter pinned to the same page, so she 
sent it down and I gave it to the messenger." 

" Have you not even the name and address 
of the person who ordered the dress ?" asked 
Dick, very much cast down by the turn things 
had taken. 

" The name we have — it was Miss L. W. 
Smith — but there was no address. It was an 
unusual thing for us to do, but as I told you, 
we have many customers who send us orders 
for dresses when they are away from town, 
and ladies are not always careful and exact 
about addresses. They are liable to fall into 
the error of thinking that if we have once 
made a garment for them, by merely signing 
their name we are sure to recall their address 
and histories. We keep very satisfactory 
books, which contain little histories of every 
garment we make, so we always refer to that 


when a lady forgets to write us as much as is 
necessary for us to know. 

" Had you ever made a dress for Miss 
Smith before ?" Dick asked, still a faint hope 
stirring his pulses. 

" We thought so, but on consulting our 
books found the measurements showed that one 
was for a large woman and the other woman 
must have been slender." 

" I suppose it is absurd to ask if you have 
any idea of where the messenger was from," 
Dick said, rather faintly. 

" I do not know, of course, but there is a 
messenger office on the block above, where 
you might inquire. It is almost useless, 
though, for the lady doubtless got the boy in 
her district, and as you are aware, this is not a 
district of residences. Still, you would not 
lose anything by asking. They may be able 
to offer you some assistance. I can give you 


the date the boy called for the gown and I am 
very sorry I cannot do more for yon." 

The man had the gown put in a box for 
Richard, who left the establishment feeling 
happier than he had since he and Penelope 
had found the dead girl. He was on the track 
of her identity at last, and, though it was a 
a faint clue he possessed, he felt it a very sure 

They did not show much inclination to 
help Richard at the District Telegraph office. 
At first they said it was impossible to tell 
which messenger it was, even if he had been 
from that place, and then, after a fashion, they 
did make a search, but with no success. 

" I know it," said one of the messengers, 
who was standing at the counter. " I had 
stopped out front to scrap with Reddy Ryan, 
who was takin' a basket of clothes home, and 
a duffer drove up in a carriage and asked if I'd 
do a job for him, 'n I told him I'd been sent 


on a call, so he said he'd give me a dime if I'd 
run an' get him a messenger. I came, an' 
Shorty, No. 313, was sent out. I remember it 
'cause he told me the man just sent him into 
Moscowitz's to get a dress an' pay a bill, an' 
gave him a dollar for doin' it." 

"Where is No. 313?" asked Dick, his 
spirits rising fifty per cent. 

" He's off on a call. No, here he is," said 
the messenger who knew something. " Come 
here, Shorty, you're wanted." 

Shorty was a red-headed boy with a 
freckled face and one eye. The other messen- 
ger recalled the circumstances to him, and 
he sniffed his nose and said he remembered. 

Richard then asked if there was a lady in 
the carriage, but No. 313 thought not. Then 
Richard asked him what the man looked like, 
but No. 313 could not say, except that he had 
a mustache and wore a soft felt hat. No. 
313 had no opinion as to whether the carriage 


was private or hired, but he " guessed " it 
wasn't a livery hack, "cause the harness 

The other and brighter messenger said the 
man was young, denied the soft felt hat and 
pronounced the carriage a hired one. 

7T w >r >K* w 

Richard hurried through his dinner, 
possessed of an unusual feeling of happiness, 
and went for Dido Morgan to spend their last 
evening in their peculiar search for Maggies 

To-morrow Penelope would be home, and 
he had learned something. If ever so little, 
still it was something, and now that he had 
made such a successful start he began to feel 
hopeful of a final success. He knew now 
where the dress had been made and he knew 
a man had called for it. He had engaged the 
two messenger boys, and with them he in- 
tended to search the town over for the man 


who got the dress which the dead girl had 
worn. Once he found the man, then the rest 
would be easy. 

Richard took Dido to the Eden Musee, 
and after she had seen all the figures that 
interested her, Dick took her up to the cosy 
retreat above the orchestra, where the tall 
green palms cut off the glare of the electric 
light. He ordered some ice cream for Dido 
and some Culmbacher for himself, and light- 
ing a cigarette he gave himself up to the influ- 
ence of the beautiful Hungarian music and 
dreams of Penelope. 

The music sobbed and sighed, and Dick 
drifted on dream-clouds and was lazily happy. 
He would solve the mystery, he felt sure, and 
then what years of happiness with Penelope 
stretched before him. What a great thing it 
was to be happy ; life is so short, why should 
people allow themselves to be unhappy for a 
second if they can possibly avoid it ? An un- 


usual tenderness filled his heart, a peaceful 
happiness stole over him, making him very gen- 

And poor little Dido, how dreary life 
loomed up before her ! Dicks heart swelled 
with pity, and he sympathetically took the 
girl's hand in his and looked tenderly into 
the soft, brown eyes that looked at him so 

There was so much happiness and love in 
waiting for him and Penelope, but what did 
life offer to poor, lonely Dido ? 

And as the sobbing music ended in one 
long thrill, Richard, raising his eyes from the 
richly tinted face of this sweet girl companion, 
saw standing before him, with white face and 
stern eyes — ■ 





At the sight of Penelope Richard was 

He stifled a first impulse to spring to his 
feet and greet her when he saw her stern, 
white and reproachful face, and sitting still 
tried slyly to drop Dido's hand. 

With an almost imperceptible bow of 
recognition, Penelope went on after her aunt 
and a gentleman who, unnoticed, had in 
advance passed Dick and his companion. 

" D it ! " said Dick, warmly, in an 

undertone, and then he thought : " I'm in for 
it now. Penelope will never believe that 
thinking of my love for her made me feel a 


great pity for this lonely girl. She will say I 
was making love to her, because I held her 
hand, and she will never forgive it. What an 
ass I am to risk a life-time of happiness with 
Penelope, just to sympathize with a girl whose 
life is lonely, and yet, poor little devil — It's 
all up with Penelope, I know. I can tell by the 
look on her face that she will not forgive or 
believe me. I'll give up. It's no use now 
trying to solve the Park mystery — no use 
trying to do anything." 

Dido looked uneasy. She had seen all 
and she partly understood. She said, in a 
little strained voice : " I am very sorry." 

'■* I wish some man would tramp on my 
toes or punch me in the ribs. I'd just like a 
chance to knock the life out of somebody," 
Dick said, savagely. 

Dido laughed softly at Dick's outburst, but 
she delicately avoided the subject of the lady 
who looked so angry. 


" I forgot to tell you," she said, at length, 
in an effort to change the subject, " that it's 
all arranged at last." 

"What?" asked Dick, curiously, the cur- 
rent of his thoughts leading him to think it 
was something about Penelope. 

" Why, the affair between Maggie and 
Martin Shanks. Why, didn't you know ?" in 
great surprise. " Why, I saw it all the first 
night you brought me back." 

" I didn't notice anything in particular, but 
I recall plainly feeling Mr. Shanks in the dark," 
Richard replied, grimly. He always felt a little 
disgust at the remembrance of his fears that 
night, and he cherished a grudge against lanky 
Martin Shanks for waiting to be run over in 
the hallway. 

" Well, Maggie and Martin are in love," 

" Possible !" 

" Yes, and last night he proposed and was 


accepted, and Sunday they are going to be 
married, and they are going down to Coney 
Island to spend the first day of their honey- 
moon," and Dido sighed in ecstasy. 

" Lucky Martin, I'm sure ; I wish I were 
in a like position," Dick said, half enviously, 
as the sad thought came that it was all over 
between him and Penelope. " I must get a nice 
present for Maggie." 

" It was all so amusing," said Dido, with a 
rippling laugh. " I'm half sorry the courtship 
ended so soon. Martin was so faithful, so 
bashful, and so desperately in love. The only 
time he ever showed the least spirit was the 
night you took me home." 

" I remember it quite well," Dick said, 

" I thought he was very insulting that 
night, but it's just his way, you know. He has 
liked you ever since then. You know he 
always stood guard in the hall ; every night I 


was out, I would stumble over him, yet he 
couldn't be coaxed to come in. When Mag- 
gie took Blind Gilbert out to his stand, 
Martin always followed, so as to protect her 
coming home. Still, if she looked at him or 
spoke to him, he was so embarrassed that he 
couldn't answer." 

" He gave her some flowers once, and 
when she thanked him, he was so broke up 
that he stammered that he had found them on 
Broadway and thought she might as well have 
them, and the great simpleton had bought 
them expressly for her. Next he bought some 
cloth for a dress, and when Maggie said she 
couldn't take it, he said he didn't want it, that 
he couldn't make any use of it. Just fancy 
Martin Shanks wearing a dress !" 

Richard smiled at the picture presented to 
his mind of lanky Mr. Shanks in a gown. 

" His proposal was the funniest thing," 
Dido continued, with a chuckle. " There 


came a loud knock on the door. Maggie 
opened it, and there before her was a work- 
basket. She picked it up and lifted the lid 
and there lay a plain gold ring." 

" Martin," she said, going out to where he 
was standing in the hall, " you are too good to 
me. I can't take these things." 

" I had an idee you'd let the parson, who 
brings us tracts, put that there ring on yer fin- 
ger, and then you'd have the right to do me 
mendin'. It was an idee, maybe I'm wrong ?" 

"'Then Maggie said gently, 'Come in, 
Martin,' and he replied, ' If yu air wid me, 
Maggie ?' and she blushed, and said, ' Yes, 
Martin,' and he stepped into the room, saying, 
' I'll come in to settle accounts.' 

" When he went out again all arrangements 
had been made for a speedy marriage. Mar- 
tin said it was no use to waste time in being 
engaged, so they are to be married Sunday. 


They are the happiest couple you ever saw," 
and Dido sighed enviously. 

" And what is to become of you and blind 
Gilbert ? Are you to have no share in their 
Eden ?" Richard asked. 

" Oh, yes. Maggie says they are going to 
rent a flat further uptown, and one room is to 
be for me and Lucille when she comes back, 
and Gilbert is to stay with them also. It's a 
pretty big family to begin with, but we'll all 
give what we can to pay expenses. I don't 
think Gilbert will go, though. He likes Mag- 
gie as though she was his daughter, but he's 
been so many years in that house on Mulberry 
Street that I don't think he will leave it." 

" Well, this is our last evening to search 
for Maggie's sister," Richard said, with half 
regret, " and we have had no success whatever. 
I'm sorry, for Maggie's sake, though personally 
I feel it is just as well for her if her sister 
never returns to be a burden on her." 


" I intend to see Tolman Bike Before his 
marriage and learn from him where the sister is. 
Then, if we think it advisable, we can still per- 
suade her to go home, but I have another im- 
portant matter that will take all my time, so I 
cannot do much, for a while, at least, about 
Maggie's sister, unless Bike tells me where she 
is when I see him, as I intend to do to- 
morrow. I expect to be too busy working on 
an important case to see you for a while, but I 
hope your good luck will still continue, and you 
can congratulate Mr. Shanks and Maggie for 

" It is useless for me to try to thank you 
for your kindness and help to me," Dido said, 

Dick's blue eyes beamed kindly on Dido as 
he replied, quickly : " There's a good girl, 
don't let us talk about that. I'm a useless fel- 
low, and if I have been of the least service to 
any one, the gratitude is all on my side. I am 


grateful to you for allowing me to imagine I 
have been of service to you." 

" You have been better to me than any one 
on earth," she said, vehemently, her eyes burn- 
ing into his. " You have often said there was 
no gratitude in the world, so I won't say I 
would like to prove my gratitude to you, but 
some day — I'll wait. The day will come when 
I can show you what I feel." 

" My dear child," he said, softly, his eyes 
moist, for he was much touched by the girl's 
words, " only be happy and that knowledge 
will make me hanoier." 

X X 

Dido looked down and was silent. Pres- 
ently two tears chased each other down over 
her cheeks and splashed on her slender hands, 
folded pathetically in her lap. l 

" Why, Dido, child !" Dick said, startled. 

She raised her brown eyes, wet with tears, 
to his frank blue ones, and her lips were 
quivering pitifully. He took her hands, 


patting them soothingly, not daring to say a 

" T-they would come/' she faltered, her 
mouth bravely smiling while her eyes were 
filling with tears. " I — I could not help it." 

He still said nothing, but kept on patting 
her hands, half embarrassed now. 

" I was so — so wretched until you found 
me, and I've been so happy since, that — that I 
couldn't quite bear — your words." 

" I hope I did not speak roughly," poor, 
blind Dick said, hardly understanding her 
grief. In his separation from her he was 
losing nothing, but she — poor child — she was 
losing everything. 

" No — that's it. You are so kind," she 
faltered. " Don't, please, don't mind me. lam 
so foolish. I am always crying, don't you think ?" 

She looked up at him with a sad, little 
smile that made his heart ache, he hardly 
knew why. 


" Will you promise me something, Dido ?" 
he asked, suddenly. 

" Yes," she answered, simply. 

" Promise that you will try to be happy ; 
that you will never cherish blue thoughts, no 
difference what happens. Let ill-luck frown 
on you all it wishes. Laugh at it ; laugh in it's 
face until your laughter makes it smile. 
Promise me to do this ?" 

" Is that what you do ?" she asked, eva- 

" Well, I don't know. But what difference ! 
I don't get as low in spirits as you do. Won't 
you promise ?" 

" You have brought me happiness. I 
promise if I get blue to think of you. Will 
that do ?" she asked, seriously. 

" I don't know," he said, half provoked, 
but he urged no further. 

And these two young people, whose barks 
had floated side by side on the stream of life 


for a brief time, were drifting apart. Men- 
tally they were taking farewell, for they knew 
that, if even for a few days, they remained yet 
in sight or call, still their course lay so widely 
apart that they might never hope to float near 
each other again. 

So they silently left the place where they 
had spent their last evening together and went 
out on the street into the cool quiet night. 

A few gas jets dimly lighted up Twenty- 
third Street, and the stores that lined the op- 
posite side frowned dark and gloomy upon the 
few people who occasionally made their appear- 
ance as they walked from the darkness into 
the light of the street lamps, and then dis- 
appeared again into the shadows beyond. 

Coming towards the young couple from 
Sixth Avenue was a man, thoughtfully walking 
along, as if, unable to sleep, he had sought the 
quiet streets to think. 


Richard noticed him, and pressing Dido's 
arm, he whispered : 

" Look at this man." 

"Yes, yes," she said, excitedly.* 

The men exchange glances, and the stran- 
ger raised his hat stiffly in response to Rich- 
ard's cordial greeting. After they had passed, 
Richard said : 

" Why do you tremble so ? I merely 
wanted to call your attention to him. That is 
Mr. Clarke, the gentleman I had the experi- 
ence with in the Hoffman House bar." 

" Mr. Clarke !" cried Dido, in amazement. 
" Why that is Tolinan Bike T 



A lovers' quarrel 

" Why !" as if unpleasantly surprised at his 
visit, " how do you do ?" 

Such was Penelope Howard's greeting to 
Richard Treadwell the morning following the 
meeting in the Eden Musee. He could not 
stay away from her, so he decided to try to 
explain all abou 4 : Dido. He wished now he 
had not been so anxious to keep the affair a 
secret until Penelope's return. It made things 
look all the blacker for him. 

Penelope was a clever girl. She was bit- 
terly hurt, but she had no intention of quarrel- 
ing with Dick. If she experienced any 
jealous pangs he should not have the satis- 


faction of knowing it. She would merely 
maintain a cold indifference and make him 
feel that, do as he pleased, it was nothing to 
her. She would smile, but indifferently, and 
not with the smile of affection with which she 
had always greeted him. She would treat him 
in a manner that would show her displeasure 
and utter lack of affection for him, but she 
would not quarrel and so give him a chance to 
offer an apology or explanation. 

" You don't seem very glad to see me ?" 
Dick ventured, with a forced smile. 

Penelope looked with well assumed amaze- 
ment and surprise at his audacity, and, raising 
her eyebrows, said with a slightly rising 
inflection, " No?" 

Richard felt very ill at ease. 

" You don't understand," he continued, 
helplessly. " I hope at least you will allow 
me to explain the scene which you witnessed 
last night" 


She said, with a cold smile : " Really, you 
must excuse me. I have no right or desire to 
know anything about your personal affairs." 

" Confound it, Penelope. Don't be so 
infernally indifferent," exclaimed the young 
man with exasperation. 

She simply looked at him. Scorn and 
disdain was pictured on her expressive coun- 
tenance now. 

" I hope Mrs. Van Brunt is well ?" he said 
awkwardly, hoping to bridge over Penelope's 

" Quite well, thank you," looking idly out 
the window. 

" Is she at home ?" 

" No ; she has just gone out with Mr. 
Schuyler," Penelope replied, picking up a book 
and aimlessly turning the leaves. 

" I hope I may be permitted to call and 
pay my respects to her ?" he said, indifferently. 

" Auntie will doubtless be pleased to see 


you," was the reply, with a marked emphasis 
on the noun. 

" How long are you going to keep up this 
nonsense, Penelope ?" 

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently 
and pouted her lips, but made no reply. 

" Do you know you are a very foolish girl 
sometimes ? You cheat yourself and me out 
of happiness. You know down in your heart 
you never doubt my faith to you. What 
pleasure you get from pretending that you do, 
I can't imagine. Come, be reasonable. Don't 
cultivate a bad temper." 

" Hum ! I should not think you would 
care what I did if I am unreasonable, bad tem- 
pered, foolish, suspicious — is that all ?" mock- 
ingly. " I am glad to know your honest opin- 
ion of me. Doubtless, that cheap looking girl 
you were with last night is more amiable." 

" I imagine she is, Penelope," Dick said, 
dejectedly and out of patience. " I have loved 


you devotedly, and I have meekly endured all 
your caprices, and if you want rny devotion to 
end in this way I can only obey. If you ever 
regret it, Penelope, remember it was your own 
doing. You sent me away and I shall not 

And Richard, a very wretched young man 
indeed, walked hastily from the room. 

Penelope never moved until she heard the 
hall door close. She thought that he would 
come back ; he always had, but when she real- 
ized that he had really gone she was surprised 
and a little frightened. 

Richard was very good-natured, but she felt 
she had gone just a little too far, and that if 
she wanted him back it would be necessary to 
humble herself. 

She could not recall a time before that she 
had so forgotten herself, and allowed her tem- 
per to take such a hold of her. She could 


hardly recall all she had said, but she felt very 
small and ungenerous. 

Now that she had lost him she reviewed 
her own conduct, and felt that, although Rich- 
ard had done wrong, she had been unneces- 
sarily harsh. He deserved some punishment 
to teach him not to err again, but she had been 
too unforgiving. 

Wasn't Dick always gentle and kind to her, 
and did he not always manfully and tenderly 
overlook her little mistakes and pettishness ? 
Besides, was she not sure he loved her better 
than any girl in the world ? Then why should 
she be jealous if he amused himself with those 
other women who are alwavs so ready to 
" draw men on." 

A woman in love always reproaches herself 
with being the cause of every lover's jar. 

A woman in love invariably blames other 
women for all the slips made by the man she 


And they will do it to the end of the 

While Penelope was spending the day 
racked with unhappy thoughts, Richard was 
busy trying to see Tolman Bike and managing 
the messenger boys in their search for the man 
who paid for the dead girl's gown. 

Richard called at Mr. Bike's office, only to 
be informed that Mr. Bike was still absent 
from town. But he knew to the contrary this 
time ; so, obtaining the address, he called at 
Tolman Bike's bachelor apartments in Wash- 
ington Square. 

Mr. Bike was in town, this servant said, 
but he did not expect him in until it was 
time to dress for a 7 o'clock dinner. He did 
not know where Mr. Bike was to be found, 
so Richard was forced to rest content with 
this meagre information until a later hour. 

Richard first consulted a directory. He 
found quite a list of Smiths, but no Miss L. 


W. Smith, and he concluded if nothing more 
feasible offered he would select the Smiths 
who lived in the best neighborhoods, and per- 
sonally visit every family until he found the 
right one, or knew positively no such Smith 
lived in New York. He had inserted a per- 
sonal advertisement in all the morning and 
evening newspapers asking for information 
concerning the relatives of Miss L. W. Smith, 
and he expected by evening to have some defi- 
nite clue to work on. 

His disagreement with Penelope, instead 
of killing all desire to try further to solve the 
mystery of Central Park, infused him with new 
life and energy, and he was resolved to solve 
the mystery, and by doing so, make Penelope 
regret her unreasonableness. 

Accompanied by the messenger boy, Rich- 
ard Treadwell tried his original plan of walk- 
ing about to meet people in the busy parts of 
the city. 


" When you see a man that you think re- 
sembles the man who got the dress, I want 
you to tell me," he instructed the boy, and so 
in hopes of knowing at least what the man 
looked like, Richard spent the day wearily 
travelling around. 

" There goes a fellow that looks just like 
the other duffer," the boy announced, as he 
and Dick stood watching the passers-by on 

Richard started to follow the man who, in 
company with a red-headed florid-faced man 
that carried about with him one hundred and 
fifty pounds of superfluous flesh, was going 
down Broadway. 

The man pointed out by the boy had a 
light beard, a high nose and sharp eyes. 
Richard recognized him as an Albany assem- * 

" That looks totally unlike the man I pic- 
tured from your description," Richard said, 


crossly, as they followed the two men into the 
Hoffman House. 

" Well, his face looks like the other fellow, 
only the other one had black whiskers, and 
this here one's is red." 

" Bleached, doubtless," Dick said ironi- 

"Well, he looks the same, anyway," the 
boy protested, as Dick seated himself in the 
bar-room and made a pretense of reading a 

The two men went to the bar and ordered 
drinks, and as the thinner one (they were 
neither on the lean order) raised a glass to his 
mouth, Richard started and looked more 
closely at him. 

Surely his face looked familiar then ! 

" I am tired ; you can go to your office 
now and come to me in the morning," Dick 
said to the messenger, who gladly started off. 

Richard sat there with serious face watching 


the man at the bar whom the boy had pointed 
out, until he and his heavy companion went 
out ; then Dick fell into deep thought. 

A wild, improbable suspicion had come to 
his mind, so improbable, so wild, that he felt 
ashamed to dwell on it. The likeness was 
familiar; so unlike, and yet so strangely like, 
that Dick hardly knew what to believe. 

" Poor devil ! Why should I allow a 
chance resemblance to make me accuse him of 
a thing- so bad as that. He has enough to 
bear and answer for now, yet — yet — But it's 
too wild, too improbable. I'll forget it, I'll 
dismiss the thought from my mind ; the mes- 
senger was surely mistaken, and I'll devote my 
evening to seeing about Maggie's sister. 
Here's to an evening free from all thoughts of 
that dead girl. And yet — it's very strange — I 
half believe " — Then, shrugging his shoulders, 
Dick impatiently drained his glass and started 
for Washington Square. 




As Richard was early, he stopped for a 
moment to see Dido Morgan, and finding her 
ready to start home, asked her to walk a little 
way with him down Fifth Avenue. 

She was looking quite wan when he went 
in, but she brightened up and flushed with 
pleasure at the prospect of seeing him for a 
little time. 

" I had an offer from a manager to-day to 
go on the stage," she said, quietly. 

" I hope you did not accept it," Dick 
replied, quickly, looking at the girl's downcast 
face, which seemed strangely altered since last 

" Not yet." 


" And you won't, Dido ?" he said, plead- 

" I don't see why not, Mr. Tread well." 

Dick started unpleasantly. He had not 
before noticed that she never called him by 
any name when addressing him, and now it 
seemed to suggest that there was a difference 
between them, and he vainly wondered what it 

" I should be very sorry, Dido, to see you 
go on the stage. In the first place you don't 
know anything about acting, and it would take 
you years before you could hope to attain any 

" I feel that I can act," she said deeply. 
" My nerves seem so tight that I long to get 
up and act some life. I want to act love, and 
then hate, and then murder." 

" Why, Dido ?" Dick asked, coolly and 
curiously, although he felt the deep emotion 
underlying her words. He recalled what an 


old club-man said to him once, that every 
woman disappointed in love wanted to act, and 
he half wondered if Dido had been falling in 
love with some of the handsome men who fre- 
quented photograph galleries to have repro- 
duced the being they love most of any on 
earth, but he put away the thought as a wrong 
to Dido. 

" I feel it, I tell you I feel it. I can't 
endure a monotonous life any more. I must 
have some excitement," she said, passionately. 

" I tell you what you want — exercise ! You 
want to walk and you want to swing clubs and 
you'll soon be all right. You are so confined 
that you have a superfluous energy which your 
work does not exhaust. If you spend it on 
exercise, it will make you a happier and 
stronger girl." 

Dido showed a little resentment. It 
always disgusts a woman to have her romantic 
feelings dissected in a matter-of-fact manner. 


Having reached Washington Square, she bade 
Richard good-bye and went on her way to her 
humble home. 

Richard walked along: North Washington 
Square until he came to the house where he 
expected to find the man who had taken 
Lucille Williams from her home. He went 
up one flight of stairs to Tolman Bike's apart- 
ments, and knocked on the door on which was 
tacked Mr. Bike's visiting card. 

In a moment the door was opened, and the 
man, he knew as Mr. Clarke stood before him. 

" Mr. Bike," said Richard, with emphasis 
on the name, " I must speak with you alone." 

Richard spoke imperatively and at the 
same moment stepped inside. 

Mr. Bike looked as ill as the day he fell 
against the Hoffman House bar. He silently 
motioned Dick to enter the first room leading 
off the private hall in which they stood. 
Closing and locking the door he followed. 


Richard seated himself in an easy chair, 
unasked. Mr. Bike sat down before a richly- 
carved desk, littered with packages of letters 
and photographs, which apparently he had 
been engaged in assorting and destroying, for 
bundles of them were slowly smouldering in 
the open grate. 

The room was very handsome, and Rich- 
ard viewed it with appreciation. There was 
a large open grate and above the low, wide 
mantle was a cabinet containing, in the centre, 
a French plate mirror, and on the brackets fine 
bits of bric-a-brac. The floor was richly 
carpeted, the walls were hung with fine paint- 
ings, while near the portieres, draped just far 
enough back to give a picturesque perspective 
view of a suite of rooms as cosy in the rear, 
was an alabaster statue of The Diver and 
another of Paul and Virginia. 

A Mexican serape y quaintly colored, was 
thrown over a low lounge, before which lay a 


white fur rug. At one side was a little, square 
breakfast table, with curiously turned legs, and 
near it a half side-board, half cabinet, attrac- 
tively filled with exquisite dishes, a few solid 
silver pieces and crystal glasses, backed up by 
long-necked bottles of liquids to fill them. 

Mr. Bike had removed his coat and waist- 
coat and had on a little embroidered jacket. 
He did indeed have an unhealthy pallor, and 
Dick noticed that the hand with which he 
toyed with a carved paper-cutter shook 

" How this man loves life and its good 
things," Dick thought, sympathetically,' as his 
gaze wandered from one article of luxury to 
another, and on to another room, where, just 
through the portiere, he could see a brass cage, 
in .which a yellow canary was jumping rest- 
lessly about, and a small aquarium, up through 
which came a spraying fountain. He could 
even see goldfish swimming about and a little 


dark turtle run its head out of the water and 
then dive down again to the bottom of the 

" I suppose you know why I came to see 
you?" Dick said at last, when he saw Mr. 
Bike would not introduce any subject. 

" No, I can't say that I do," Mr. Bike 
responded, with affected indifference. 

" Well, I want to know all about Lucille 
Williams," he said abruptly 

" What right have you to come to me for 
such information ?" Mr. Bike asked coldly. 

" Because you induced the girl to leave her 
home," Dick replied positively, " and I want 
to know all you have to tell about the rest 
of it." 

" I have nothing to tell," Mr. Bike said, 
with a slight, sarcastic smile. 

" Well, sir, if you won't tell, I'll find a way 
to make you," Richard said, angrily. 


" Ah ! Indeed !" Mr. Bike ejaculated, still 
cool and unconcerned. 

" Yes, sir ; if you don't tell me what I want 
to know before I leave here, I will go to Miss 
Chamberlain, your fiancee " — Mr. Bike started 
uneasily — " I'll tell her a story you would not 
like her to know." 

" And you flatter yourself that she would 
believe you ?" sarcastically. 

" I know it. I can prove what I have to 
say," Dick replied in a manner that was unmis- 

" All right, go to her. See what you can 

" By Jove, I will. I will go to the news- 
papers too, and I'll tell them — " 

" What ?" Mr. Bike asked, rather uneasily. 

" You know what ! Disabuse your mind 
of any idea that I don't know some chapters in 
your life, that, if made public, will end your 
devilish career." Richard hinted darkly, the 


suspicions which had come to him before that 
day sweeping over him with full force. 

Tolman Bike was thinking intently. 
Richard saw that his last bluff had gone home 
and he determined to follow it up with more 
of the same kind. 

" Be as unconcerned as you please, Mr. 
Bike. To-morrow, when your marriage is 
postponed, and you are called on to answer 
to the serious charge I shall bring against you, 
you will be sorry that you didn't take the easier 
course, and give me the information I asked 
for." Dick said this as if his patience had run 

" I have no information to give," Mr. Bike 
said, in a tone which showed he was begfinnine 
to weaken. 

" Say, it's wasting time to pretend to me. 
Either you will, or you will not, do as I have 
asked you. If you don't, the consequences be 
en your own head." 


" And would you — do you mean — " hesi- 
tated Tolman Bike, losing confidence at sight 
of Dicks undiminished determination. 

"Yes, sir; I mean every word of it." 
Dick had risen and he looked very angry and 
capable of doing all the bad things he threat- 
ened. " I have given you a chance, and you 
refuse to accept, so — " and he shrugged his 
shoulders as if his responsibility ended there. 

" And if you get the information, what use 
will you make of it ?" asked Bike, as if longing 
for some hope to be held out to him. 

"You know what I want. It is not to 
bring any credit to myself, but to relieve the 
suspense of a heart-broken sister." 

" And would you, if I tell you all, be man 
enough to show some mercy ?" he asked, in a 
hopeless way. 

" I hold out no promises. I am determined 
to have a confession from you before your 
marriage. If you don't give it, you don't 


marry, and you can put that down for a cer- 
tainty," Dick said doggedly. 

"And if I tell you," in sudden hope, "will 
you let my marriage go on without telling 
Clara ? Promise to let us get away on our 
wedding tour and then you can do as you 
wish. Only give me that much," almost 
pleaded the now trembling man. 

" And let you wreck the life of the inno- 
cent, unsuspecting woman who becomes your 
bride ? What sort of a man do you think I 
am ?" Richard asked in scorn. 

"My God, man! Have some feeling. 
Haven't I suffered enough already ? You are 
a man, you can understand how a man will 
sell his soul to hell for the sake of a woman," 
he said bitterly. " Have some feeling !" 

" Can't you understand it ?" he continued, 
desperately, in vain effort to wake compassion 
in Richard's breast. " She was pretty, she 


had no friends to make any trouble about it, 
and I lost my head. I have suffered for it. 
I have regretted it." And Tolman Bike put 
his hands over his face, and Richard heard a 
broken, husky sob. 

This was more than he could endure. His 
sternness fled at that sound, and he could 
hardly refrain from attempting to console the 
wretched man. Only thoughts of the poverty- 
stricken little sister helped him maintain an air 
of unrelenting sternness. 

" Well, what do you ask of me ?" Richard 
asked with a roughness that covered his real 
feeling. Now that he had conquered the man 
his suspicions fled. He felt sorry for Bike's 
suffering and had a guilty feeling that he was 
the cause of it. 

"Only give me until to-morrow and I'll 
swear to you that you shall know what you 
want to before ten o'clock. Give me until 
then. If I fail, you have yet time to stop my 


marriage in the evening. You are a man, but 
if you won't spare me for a man's follies, spare 
me for the sake of the woman I am to marry. 
I'm sick ! I can't talk ! Only give me until to- 

" it, Bike," Richard said, feelingly, 

" if it wasn't for the girl's sister, I'd fling the 
whole thing over." He little knew what it 
meant to him. " I believe your promise. I'm 
a man, reckless, indolent, careless as the worst 
of them, and, confound it, I'm sorry for you. 
There's my hand." 

" Thank you, thank you," Bike said, his 
deep emotions showing in the painful twitch- 
ing of his pale face. He clasped Dick's firm 
hand in his own dry, feverish one, and gave it 
a grateful pressure. 

" Until to-morrow, then ?" 

" Until to-morrow," echoed the unhappy 
man. looking into Dick's face with an appeal- 
ing look of agony that Richard never forgot. 




It was ten o'clock when Richard Treadwell 
in gown and slippers, sat down in a high- 
backed chair to partake of a light breakfast. 

The dainty table was spread with its burden 
of light rolls and yellow butter, with a bit of 
ice on it, and crisp, red berries. The odor of 
the coffee was very appetizing, but Richard 
ate and read the morning paper at the same 

The awnings lowered over the windows 
shut out the o-lare of the morning- sun. A 
light breeze moved the curtains lazily, and a 
green palm on the window-sill waved its long 
arms energetically, as if to hurry the indolent 
young man who was missing the beauty of 
Summer's early morning. 


Richard Treadwell's rooms were as unlike 
the elegant apartments of Tolman Bike, as a 
violet is unlike a rose. One, like a laughing, 
romping child, denoted health and cheerful- 
ness ; the other, unhealthy in tone and color- 
ing, spoke of dreams and selfish gratification. 

Here were copies of Rosa Bonheur's 
master-pieces of animal life, pictures of racing 
horses, photographs of serious-faced dogs in 
comical positions, a stuffed fish's head, with 
wide open mouth, mounted on a plaque ; box- 
ing gloves, clubs and dumb-bells, lying where 
they had fallen after this young man had taken 
a turn at each of them. There was an 
unsorted jumble of walking-sticks, whips, fish- 
ing tackle and firearms. The furniture was 
light, the curtains were thin and airy, the 
carpet was bright and soft. 

Richard ate and read unmindful of the 
wrestling match between a bow-legged pug 
and a saucy black-and-tan, whose little sharp 


ears stood stiffly erect, expressive of cool 
amusement at the fat pug's futile attempts to 
throw him. 

As Richard pushed his chair back and 
lighted a cigarette, a man-servant entered 
quietly and put a large envelope and a smaller 
one on the table before him. Richard took the 
larger envelope and read the superscription. 




Tolman Bike. 

He hastily tore it open with his thumo. 
The letter began without any preliminaries ; 

In writing this I place my life at your 
disposal. I neither expect mercy nor ask it. 

I have been so wretched for days that 
life is a burden I little care to bear. 


Do what you please with this, but if you 
possess an unheard-of generosity I would ask 
you, after clearing yourself, to spare me as 
much as possible. 

" My wild, improbable suspicions were 
correct !" Dick exclaimed, in surprise. The 
black-and-tan, hearing his voice, came and 
jumped inquiringly against his knee, but 
receiving no attention returned to finish the 
English Kilrain on the rug. 

I first met Lucille Williams when she came 
to my office in answer to my advertisement 
for a typewriter and stenographer. Of the 
many who applied I selected her. Not because 
she was the most proficient worker, but for a 
man's reason. 

She had a pretty face. 

Wonderfully pretty, I have had men tell 
me. She had large, clear blue eyes and an 
abundance of wavy black hair, and a faultless 


pink and white complexion that often accom- 
panies the combination. Her hands were 
small and slender. She was particular in the 
care of them, and her remarkably small feet 
were always well shod. 

Life is dull at best during business hours, 
so I amused myself with my pretty type- 
writer. It started first by my playfully putting 
my arm around her chair when dictating. 
Harmless enough. Yes, but it brought me so 
close to her that I began to wonder what she 
would do if I kissed her. When I stopped in 
my-dictation she raised her great, blue, alluring 
eyes to me in such a way, that I wouldn't have 
been a man had I not felt a little thrill of 

I did kiss her at last. 

She was not much offended. She cried a 
little and wanted to know what she had done 
that encouraged me to insult her. Her chief 
fault was vanity, so I pleased myself and 


comforted her by taking her in my arms and 
vowing that the sight of her red lips so close, 
and her great eyes, so alluring and entrancing, 
was more than I could resist. It comforted 
her and pleased me. 

Yes, I said something of love. 

It somehow seemed the only thing to say 
under the circumstances. I think I called her 
" My Love," and similar names. I am posi- 
tive I did not say that I loved her, although 
I recall coaxing her to say she loved me. 

She said she loved me and I believed 

It was all very pretty and interesting while 
it had the charm of newness. We soon spent 
our evenings together. I took her to restau- 
rants patronized by Bohemia, where, if one 
happens across an acquaintance, he, on a simi- 
lar errand, is just as anxious to keep it a secret 
as you are. In the summer, when there was 
less chance of embarrassing meetings, I took 


her tp better places and occasionally to the 

I found it interesting. 

Meanwhile, I learned that Lucille's sister 
was employed in the factory, and I threatened 
Lucille with an eternal parting if, by any 
chance, her family learned of our intimacy. 
When the pretence of seeing friends and per- 
sons about business would no longer serve as 
a blind, I instructed Lucille to say she was 
engaged on extra work. She very sensibly 
said she could not do this without money to 
show for it, so I promptly made it possible. 
Thereafter that was her blind. 

Thus she deceived her family. 

Meanwhile I thought I would feel more 
comfortable if Lucille were better dressed. 
You know how men feel on this subject. 
Most of them would rather be seen in com- 
pany with the lowest woman in New York 
if she wore a Paris gown, than with a woman 


in rags, even if she were as pure as a saint. 
A man is always afraid of being chaffed for 
being with a badly dressed woman. 

For the world, looking on, judges only by 
the dress. 

I spoke to Lucille. I found she was as 
sensitive about her cheap garments as I was, 
so I told her if she would buy an entire outfit 
suitable for our wanderings I would pay for it. 
I made suggestions, and the garments she 
bought were as lady-like and appropriate 
as if it had been an every-day affair with 

Then came the question, Where to send 
the clothes ? 

She could not send them home, for her 
mother and sister, though poor, had Puritan 
ideas concerning morals and propriety. 

There is a way out of every difficulty. 

I had her send all her new articles to my 
bachelor apartment. Then I gave her a key, 


so she could enter my rooms at any time to 
change her cheap clothing for her new and 
vice versa. 

So I got her to my rooms. 

I don't deny that it was my intention at 
first to finally take her there, but I wanted to 
preserve the sentiment of the affair as long as 
possible. She was very perfect to the sight, 
very lovable, and I was eager for our even- 
ings — anxious to drip out as slowly as possi- 
ble the intoxication of the affair, still breath- 
lessly eager to drain the cup. 

There is no need of going into detail. 

You know what bachelor apartments are ; 
you know what opportunities they afford. Lu- 
cille was timid at first ; afraid to come in or go 
out, but she soon grew bolder. She even 
grew to like the danger of it. 

I was very fond of her then. 

There is no use to be hypocritical and cry 
it was love of her that led me on. Why men 


adopt such weak pleas, I never could under- 

It was not love of her. 

A man never injures a woman through love 
of her, but through love of self. I realized 
this all the time, but I was passionately happy, 
and happiness is not so plentiful that I should 
slight it, result as it might. 

I promised to marry her. 

It happened in a moment when I loved her 
best. I knew at the time, I was doing a reck- 
less thing. The next day I warned her to 
keep our love secret, because there were rea- 
sons why, if it were known, it would be injuri- 
ous to me. She, appreciating the difference 
between us, was as silent as I could be. 

By and by things began to pall. 

I was too well acquainted with her. I 
grew tired of her pretty face. Her little vul- 
garities exasperated me. She was a woman of 
such little variety, and she so weakly bowed to 


every demand I made that it became unbear- 

I have known homely women whose charms 
were more lasting. 

Her weakness maddened me. I grew to 
hate her. If she had only had enough spirit 
to quarrel with me, but that was the secret of 
it ; she had no spirit until it was too late. 

Just before this I met Miss Chamberlain. 
I found that I had pleased her fancy and I 
concluded to marry. 

It mattered little that I was not in love ; I 
had long since learned that love was merely 
the effect of some pleasing sensation, which 
some persons, like some music, produce on us, 
that shortly wears itself out. 

I thought it better to marry where there 
was no feeling than where there was. For the 
sensation of love is sure to die, leaving an un- 
supportable weariness caused by its own 
emotion. Where there is no such feeling, 
there is no such result to fear. 


I never expected any trouble from Lucille. 

But I reckoned without my host. Al- 
though I endeavored to keep my engagement 
secret, yet a line to the effect that I was to 
marry Miss Chamberlain, reached print. Lu- 
cille, though hardly in society, always read 
society notes. She read that one. 

She became a tigress — a devil. Isn't it 
queer that' 1 a weak woman always has an un- 
governable temper ? Expecting nothing more 
than a few tears from her, I answered careless- 
ly, and she grew infuriated, Of course, I was 
astonished. She accused me of falseness and 
demanded that I deny the report over my own 
name and marry her immediately, or she would 
seek Miss Chamberlain and lay before her 
what she pleased to call my baseness. 

I was determined to marry. 

It meant wealth, a better social position, 
power, and a wife that at least I would be 
proud of. I had cherished such an idea of 


marriage since I was a boy, and I was resolved 
that nothing should balk me now that it was 
in my grasp. 

I was determined to take fate into my own 

Finding I could not quiet Lucille, I con- 
cluded to rid myself of all responsibility in her 

Call me base if you will ! 

Was I doing more than hundreds of men 
are doing in New York to-day ! 

Had I done more than hundreds — aye, 
thousands — of men have done in New York ? 

You are a man of education and means ; 
denounce me if you have never sinned like- 

Let any New York man of education, 
leisure and money denounce me, if any there 
are who have not likewise blundered. 

It was only a matter of a few days' amuse- 
ment, harmless if it ended quietly. 


But I slipped up on it — therein lies the sin. 
Not in what I did, but in blundering over it. 

People may say what they will. I was not 
wrong. It is the system that is wrong, the 
system that prevents people who care for each 
other from being happy in that affection while 
it lasts. Had the system been different 
Lucille would have been home to day, happier 
and in more comfortable circumstances than 
previous to our meeting, and I — I would not 
now be writing to you. 

But there was nothing to save us. 

Tired and disgusted with Lucille, she 
further exasperated me with her jealousy and 
unreasonable demands for a speedy marriage. 
Fearful of losing the marriage which meant so 
much to me, I carefully planned what seemed 
the only course to pursue. 

Yes, it was deliberate. 

Calming her anger for the day, I persuaded 
her to come to my apartment — these very 


rooms where I sit and quietly write this con- 
fession of my crime. 

Unsuspecting, aye, even gladly she came — 
came to meet her fate, which waited for her 
like a spider in his entangling web for a fly. 

" If you please, sir, Miss Howard's compli- 
ments, and would you come up as soon as 
possible, ,r said a voice at the door. 

The little black-and-tan paused for a mo- 
ment, with the pug's ear still between his little 
sharp teeth, to see where the voice came from,- 
and Richard responded, impatiently : " Very 
well, say I'll be there," and returned to Tolman 
Bike's letter. 




The mockery of the thing amused me. 

I knew so well how it was to end, and 
when Lucille came cheerfully to me, never 
thinking but that she would return to her 
home that night, I laughed aloud. 

She wanted to talk about my promise of 
marriage, and I readily consented. In very 
few words I gave her to understand that it 
was impossible for me to marry her in her pres- 
ent condition, but if she would be guided by 
my judgment, and bought suitable clothing, we 
could then go away and be quietly married. 
To do this it was necessary that she remain 
with me. 

She was more than satisfied. 


She was elated over her brilliant prospects. 
Still she was stubbornly determined to notify 
her family, and only by threatening to aban- 
don the whole affair if it became known did I 
keep her from doing so. I did, however, con- 
sent to her writing a note saying she had gone 
out of town for a few weeks, and on her return 
would have a joyful surprise for them. It 
satisfied her and did not hurt me. 

The letter was never mailed. 

Lucille's presence was not unknown to 
some few. My servant, who slept at home, 
knew I had somebody with me, but as he had 
served many years in taking care of bachelor 
apartments, he was neither surprised nor 
inquisitive. The waiters who served our meals 
knew I was not alone, but to them, also, it was 
a story too old to merit comment. Still I 
took precautions that they should not see 

In the garments I had bought her I sent 


Lucille to a dressmakers to get her measure- 
ments. I also sent her to a dentist to have 
some decaying teeth filled, and so I started to 
work out my release from a woman of whom I 
had tired. 

You might say that I could have taken a 
more simple way. I don't see how. I was 
afraid of losing my wealthy fiancee and so I 
would not risk the least chance of Lucille's 
telling. Of course I could have claimed black- 
mail and been declared innocent, yet, knowing 
the nature of the woman I was hoping to 
marry, I would not risk the effect it would 
have on her. 

There seemed only one thing to do, and I 
did it. I had Lucille write an order for a dress, 
from my dictation, inclosing the measurements 
and stating that it would be called for on a 
certain date. Personally I went to different 
stores and bought the garments necessary to 
make a perfect outfit. I did not spare 


expense. I brought everything home with me 
in the coupe. This relieved me of necessity of 
giving any address or name, which made me 
feel sure the articles could not be traced to 
their destination. 

During this time Lucille was very happy, 
notwithstanding her imprisonment. She was 
constantly planning what she would do when 
we were married. She dwelt in delight on the 
sensation her marriage would create among 
those who knew her. She discussed the locali- 
ties most suitable for us to live in, and talked 
of things she intended to buy for her house 
and the dresses she meant to get. 

It is useless to try to describe the emotions 
I labored under during those days. I was 
conscious of a tiredness, underlaid with a 
stolid determination not to be balked in my 
purpose. I felt no sympathy for Lucille. I 
think I was absolutely without feeling one way 
or the other. I only felt a desire to laugh at 


her air castles as she told them to me. Not 
amused — no. I can't say what the feeling 
was. Even when she lay awake some nights 
and I knew she was painting her future, I 
laughed aloud at the strangeness of it all. 

I counted the nights. Every one found 
my preparations nearer completion. 

Carefully I removed all trade marks and 
names from every garment I had bought her. 
The gloves and Suide shoes only bore their 
size. I took the crown lining out of the hat, 
and before I brought her dress home I removed 
the inside belt, which was stamped with the 
name of the man who made it. 

The dress was the last article but one I 
brought to my apartment. I did not even 
show myself at the establishment where the 
gown was made. I drove near the place, and, 
hiring a messenger boy, sent him in for the 
garment. In this way I preserved the secret 
of my identity. 


The last thing I bought was a bottle of 
hair bleaching fluid. I told Lucille that if her 
hair was golden to match her eyes I thought 
her appearance would be much improved. 
She was quite anxious to make the test, always 
being ready to do anything she thought would 
increase her beauty. For two days, at different 
intervals, I brushed her hair with the fluid, 
and it turned the most perfect golden shade 
I had ever seen. 

It really transformed her. I have since 
then marvelled at the change and have felt an 
admiration for her perfect beauty. Then I 
felt nothing. 

I only had a desire to watch her. I 
watched her eat and wondered at her appetite. 
I listened to her light talk and marvelled at 
her happiness. I gazed at her while she slept, 
amazed, almost, at her evident sense of 


Why did nothing warn her ? I waited and 
watched for some sign that would show that 
instinct felt the approaching end. There was 
no sign. 

The last night, I leaned on my elbow and 
watched her sleep. She looked so perfect ! 
Her soft, dimpled arms thrown above her head, 
her pretty face in a nest of golden hair, her 
straight black brows, her long, black lashes 
resting lightly on her pink cheeks, and all to 
become nothing — nothing. To-morrow night 
it would be over ; this was her last night. 
Impulsively I leaned over her and whispered 
" Lucille ! Lucille !" but she merely opened her 
great blue eyes, and giving me a little smile, 
as innocent and sweet as a babies, moved with 
a sigh of perfect content close to my arm, 
which rested on the pillow, and so went to 
sleep again. 

I lay down and tried to still the heavy, 


painful beating of my heart. I was very 
weary, but I could not sleep. 

At breakfast something kept saying, " Her 
last ! her last !" and it gratified me to see her 
eat. At luncheon she complained of no appe- 
tite, yet I almost compelled her to eat, while 
I ate nothing. During the day I told my 
servant to take a holiday, that I would be out 
of town and he could have several days to 
spend as he wished. Rid of him, I ordered a 
dinner fit for a wedding feast ; still I could not 
eat. Lucille ate and I helped her joyfully. I 
had a desire to see her happy. I have thought 
the jailer who feasts the condemned prisoner 
an hour before the execution must feel as I 
felt this day. 

Late in the evening I laid her new gar- 
ments, the finery that so delighted her, out on 
the bed. I laughed when I did it, and then 1 
sat down and watched her dress. She was as 
happy as a child. She put on one thing after 


the other, surveying each addition in the mir- 
ror with little cries of delight. I laced her 
Suede shoes and helped fasten her dress and 
buttoned her gloves. When all was done I 
wrapped her in a gray travelling cloak and hid 
her pretty face under a thick veil. 

I had told her we would take the midnight 
train for Buffalo, where we would be married, 
and remain at Niagara for a few days before 
our return to New York. She trusted me 
in everything, and asked me if she could 
increase her wardrobe before the time for our 
return. We were to start early enough to 
permit us to take a drive before going to the 
station. Lucille had been confined so long 
in the house that she welcomed this arrange- 
ment, and she was very eager and nervous to 

I had ordered my horse and dog-cart to be 
ready at a certain hour. I had a liking for 
late drives, so my orders were not considered 


unusual. I walked out of the house, first tell- 
ing Lucille to lock the door and walk around 
the corner on Fifth Avenue, where I would get 

Before starting, however, I asked Lucille 
to drink a glass of wine with me. I put in 
hers a sleeping potion, and she raised it to 
her lips, saying : 

"Here's to our happiness." 

I put my wine down untasted. 

Then she came to me in an affectionate 
way I had once admired, and raising her veil, 
said : 

" Tolman, kiss your little one." 

I folded her in my arms. My heart beat 
quickly, my breath came painfully. I held her 
close to my breast, I kissed her soft, warm ( 
lips regretfully. 

"Lucille," I said, pleadingly, "will you go 
back to your home and forget you wanted to 
be my wife ?" 


" I would rather clie," she answered me, 

I knew then it was too late. There was 
no way to retreat. Either I must accomplish 
my purpose, or renounce all claim to Miss 
Chamberlain and take Lucille as my wife. 

"We have been very happy these two 
weeks, haven't we, Tolman ?" she said, with 
her arms about my neck. " Kiss your little 
one good-by, for when she comes back here she 
will be your wife." 

" Yes, when you come back," I said, and I 
kissed her. With that there flitted through 
my mind a picture of a little quiet home with 
her as my wife. I thought of her beauty, but 
then came the thought that it would cost me 
what I most longed for — wealth — position. 
No, it was too late. 

I drove to the curb almost the instant she 
had reached there, and only stopped long 
enough to get her in. I had a valise, which 


Lucille thought contained a change of cloth- 
ing, in the dog-cart. I drove off quickly to the 

We had not more than entered the Park 
when Lucille yawned and complained of 
feeling drowsy. I drove on, listening intently 
for any sounds that would indicate the pres- 
ence of any one. Reaching a bend in the 
road and finding everything still, I asked 
Lucille to hold the reins until I could get out 
to see if something was not amiss with the 

Drowsily she took the reins. 

" Do you see anything coming, Lucille ?" 
I asked, as I reached under the seat and, 
drawing out a sandbag which I had made ready 
in advance and concealed there, I rose to my 
feet as though to jump out of the buggy. 

" No, Tolman ; the way looks clear," she 
replied, slowly, as she leaned forward to 


With a swift motion I raised the sandbag 
and brought it down on her head. 

She never uttered a sound, but fell across 
the side of the cart. I caught her with one 
hand and, taking the reins from her limp fin- 
gers, steadied the horse. 

I took her in my arms to the nearest 
bench. I listened for her heart-beats. They 
were still. I removed the Connemara cloak 
and veil. I had some difficulty, but at last 
managed to place her in an upright position 
on the bench. Then I folded her hands in 
her lap, and as I could not make her parasol 
stay on her knee, I left it where it fell on the 
ground before her. 

I kissed her lips, still warm and soft, 
and closing her eyes, pulled her hat down 
so it would prevent their opening. Taking 
the wrap and veil and putting them and the 
sandbag in the valise I drove back to the 


I returned to my rooms and spent the 
remainder of the night in destroying all the 
clothing which belonged to her. Early in the 
morning, just about daybreak, I went quietly 
out and to the Gilsey House, where I got a 
room and went to bed. I slept. It was 
afternoon when I awoke, and while eating my 
breakfast I read in the first edition of an even- 
ing paper an account of your finding Lucille's 
body in Central Park. 

In the smaller envelope I enclose a photo- 
graph of Lucille taken before her hair was 
bleached. You will doubtless recognize it. 
I also inclose the letter she wrote to her 

You can understand now why I was fright- 
ened at the sight of Maggie Williams's tears ; 
why I was horrified when I met in the Hoff- 
man House the man who was suspected of 
being guilty of my crime. My guilty fears 
prevented my giving you my name, and when 


you came to my apartment, seeking Lucille, I 
knew that my hour had come. 

I might have given you a fight and warded 
off the end for a while. But what use. If the 
proof was not conclusive enough to hang me, 
it was enough to imprison me, for the waiters, 
my servant and the livery-man could have 
made out a case of circumstantial evidence. I 
prefer death. 

It is morning. The morning of the day 
which was to have been my wedding day. Oh 
God, I had some wild hope when I began this 
confession. It has gone now. This is all. If 
you have any charity in your soul, spare me 
all you can. 


North Washington Square, 
June Seventh, 18 — . 




Richard could hardly dress quickly enough 
after he finished Tolman Bike's letter. The 
indolent young man had never been seen in 
such frantic haste. The elevator seemed to 
him to creep. Rushing out to the street, he 
jumped into the first cab, telling the driver to 
make the best possible speed to Fifth Avenue. 

With a sad, penitent face, Penelope How- 
ard was impatiently awaiting her handsome 
lover in her own little room, her abject apolo- 
gies all cut and dried for use. But he gave 
her no time. 

" Penelope, the mystery is solved !" he 
yelled, and catching her in his strong arms, he 


held her so close to his heart that she gasped 
for breath. 

" I've the story right here, sweetheart," and 
in the fewest possible words, punctuated with 
Penelope's exclamations of surprise and sor- 
row, Richard related all that had happened 
since the night before she went to Washington. 

" My dear — Oh, Richard. Good morning," 
said Penelope's aunt, as she entered the room 
with bonnet on and a carriage-wrap thrown 
hastily over a house dress. " Mrs. Chamber- 
lain has sent for me. They have just received 
news that Clara's fiancee, Mr. Bike, was found 
dead in his bathroom, shot through the head. 
They think it was accidental, and poor Clara, 
who was to have been a bride this evening, is 
prostrated. IT1 be back presently, dear. Rich- 
ard stay with the child." 

They let her go without a word of the in- 
formation they possessed, and, oblivious to all 
else, they read Tolman Bike's confession. 


Woman-like, Penelope was in tears, and had as 
much pity for the unhappy man as for the 
luckless girl. 

" I knew he was the man," Richard said. 
" When the messenger boy pointed out the 
man in the Hoffman House as looking like the 
man who got the gown, the resemblance struck 
me, though this man was fair and Tolman Bike 
was dark. The moment the resemblance 
struck me, the whole thing flashed before my 
mind. My ridiculous remark that probably 
the man was bleached, suggested to me the 
possibility of Maggie's sister having bleached 
after she left home. Still, it was all so wild 
and improbable that I tried not to think of it." 

They decided only to tell the secret of the 
crime to those most concerned. That done, 
they effectually saved the name of Tolman 
Bike from deeper disgrace., little as he de- 
served it. 

When Mrs. Van Brunt returned from the 


house where the preparations for wedding fes- 
tivities had been turned into arrangements for 
a funeral, Penelope, with her eyes red from 
weeping, drew her aunt into her own little den 
where Richard was. Together they told the 
astonished woman the story of the crime, and 
she was more determined even than they were 
that the confession should be held sacred, since 
making it public could benefit no one, and 
would only serve to hurt the family who had 
expected to welcome him into their home as 
the husband of the daughter of the house. 

They had intended to visit Maggie Wil- 
liams that day and tell her the story of her 
sister, but Mrs. Van Brunt, more thoughtful, 
told them to delay the sad information until 
the girl was married, as Richard had told them 
of her intended marriage Sunday. 

Tolman Bike was privately buried Sunday 
from the Chamberlain mansion, while the girl 
who was to have been his bride, lay uncon- 


scious in a darkened room upstairs. Mrs. Van 
Brunt, as an old and intimate friend of Mrs. 
Chamberlain, went to the funeral. Penelope 
went with her aunt, her heart divided in sym- 
pathy for the dead man, the dead girl, and the 
stricken daughter of the Chamberlain house- 
hold. If Tolman Bike had lived, Penelope 
would have hated him for his crime, but 
because he had strength to die, and when she 
pictured his lonely end, she felt sorry for his 
wretched fate. 

Sunday evening they visited Maggie Wil- 
liams, now Mrs. Martin Shanks, and Penelope 
gently told them the story of the Mystery of 
Central Park, omitting as much as possible 
that would pain the sister. Rough, but kindly 
Martin Shanks comforted his bride. Dido 
Morgan mingled her tears with Maggie's, but 
she was shy and awkward, having little to say 
in the presence of Penelope Howard, though 


Penelope did her utmost to be cordial and con- 

The warm, frank feeling that had hereto- 
fore existed between Dido and Dick was gone. 
Dick endeavored to be friendly and pleasant, 
but Dido maintained a stiff silence that made 
him have a sense of relief when he and 
Penelope finally took their departure. 

" Ah, Penelope, it's true, as Tolman Bike 
said, happiness is not so plentiful in life that 
we can afford to let it slip by when near our 
grasp," Richard said, sadly, as he and Penelope 
drove homeward. Penelope merely sighed in 

" I did not solve the mystery as you 
expected and wished," he continued, taking 
her hand in his, "still I object to being cheated 
of my happiness. When are you going to 
marry me ?" 

" Oh !" Penelope tried to say in playful 
surprise, but her hand trembled. 


" This is the tenth. I will give you until 
the twenty-first to make what little preparations 
you need for the wedding," Richard said, 
masterfully, yet tenderly. 

" Oh ! If you talk that way I suppose I 
must meekly obey," Penelope said, as, with a 
sigh of content, she allowed Dick to take her 
in his arms. 


C. W. DILLINGHAM, Successor. 


The Publisher on receipt of price, will send any book 
on this Catalogue by mail, postage free. 

All handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt backs suitable for libraries. 
Mary J. Holmes' Novels. 

Tempest and Sunshine $150 

English Orphans 150 

Homestead on the Hillside. ... 150 

'Lena Rivers 150 

Meadow Brook 1 50 

Dora Deane 1 50 

Cousin Maude 1 50 

Marian Grey 1 50 

Edith Lyle 1 50 

Daisy Thornton 1 50 

Chateau D'Or 1 50 

Queenie Hetherton . ._. 1 50 

Bessie's Fortune .". 1 5° 

Darkness and Daylight $1 50 

Hugh Worthington 1 

Cameron Pride 1 

Rose Mather 1 

Ethelyn's Mistake 1 

Millbank 1 

Edna Browning 1 

West Lawn 1 

Mildred 1 

Forrest House 1 

Madeline 1 

Christmas Stories 1 

Gretchen . . . (New) 1 

Marion Harland's Novels. 

Alone $150 

HiddenPath 1 50 

Moss Side 1 50 

Nemesis 150 

Miriam 150 

Sunny Bank 150 

Ruby's Husband 1 50 

At Last 1 50 

My Little Love $i 50 

Phemie's Temptation 1 50 

The Empty Heart 1 50 

From My Youth Up 1 50 

Helen Gardner 1 50 

Husbands and Homes 1 50 

Jessamine 1 50 

True as Steel (New) 1 50 

A. S. Roe's Novels. 

True to the Last $1 50 

A Long Look Ahead 150 

The Star and the Cloud 1 50 

I've Been Thinking 1 50 

How Could He Help It 150 

To Love and To Be Loved $150 

Time and Tide 1 50 

■Woman Our Angel s .. 1 50 

Looking Around 1 50 

The Cloud on the Heart 150 

Agusta J. Evans' Novels. 

Beulah $1 75 

Macaria 175 

Inez 175 

At the Mercy of Tiberius. (New) 200 

St. Elmo $2 00 

Vashti 2 00 

Infelice 2 00 


May Agnes Fleming's Hovels. 

Guy Earlscourt's "Wife $i 50 

A Wonderful Woman 1 50 

A Terrible Secret 1 50 

A Mad Marriage 1 50 

Serine's Revenge 1 50 

One Night's Mystery 1 50 

Kate Danton 150 

Silent and True 150 

Maude Percy's Secret 1 50 

The Midnight Queen.... (New). 150 

Heir of Charlton 

Carried by Storm 1 50 

Lost for a Woman 1 50 

A Wife's Tragedy 1 50 

A Changed Heart 1 50 

Pride and Passion 1 50 

Sharing Her Crime 1 50 

A Wronged Wife 150 

The Actress Daughter 1 50 

The Queen of the Isle 1 50 

Expressmen and Detectives $1 50 

Mollie Maguires and Detectives. 1 50 
Somnambulists and Detectives. 1 50 
Claude Melnotte and Detectives. 1 50 
Criminal Reminiscences, etc... 1 50 

Rail-Road Forger, etc 1 50 

Bank Robbers and Detectives. . . 1 50 
A Double Life (New) 150 

Allan Pisikertom's "Works. 

Gypsies and Detectives 

Spiritualists and Detectives. ... 

Model Town and Detectives 

Strikers, Communists, etc ... . 

Mississippi Outlaws, etc 

Bucholz and Detectives 

Eurglar's Fate and Detectives.. 

Bertha Clay's Novels. 

Thrown on the World $1 50 

A Bitter Atonement 1 50 

Love Works Wonders 1 50 

Evelyn's Folly 1 50 

UnderaShadow 150 

Beyond Pardon 1 50 

The Earl's Atonement 150 

"New York Weekly 9 ' S 
Brownie's Triumph — Sheldon. ..$1 50 " 
The Forsaken Bride. do .15° 
Earl Wayne's Nobility, do .. 1 50 
Lost, a Pearle — do . . 1 50 

Young Mrs.Charnleigh-Henshew 1 50 

His Other Wife— Ashleigh 1 50 

A Woman's Web— Maitland 1 50 

Miriani Coles Harris' Novels. 

Rutledge $1 50 I ihe Sutherlands 

Louie's Last Term, St. Mary's. 1 50 | Frank Warrington 

Ernest Ilenan's French Works. 
The Life of Jesus. Translated.. $1 75 I The Life of St. Paul. Translated 
Lives of the Apostles, do . . 1 75 | The Bible in India — By Jaoollioi, 
Julie F. Smith's * ; "©vol 

A Woman's Temptation. 

Repented at Leisure 

A Struggle for a Ring... 
Lady Darner's Secret... 

Between Two Loves 

Put Asunder (New). . . 


Curse of Everleigh — Pierce I 

Peerless Cathleen — Apnew 

Faithful Margaret — Ashmore... 

Nick Whiffles— Robinson 

Grinder Papers — Dallas 

Lady Lenora— Conklin 

Stella Rosevelt— Sheldon. (New). 

$1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 So 
1 b° 
* S° 
1 50 

Si 50 
1 50 

The Widower 

The Married Belle 

Courting and Farming. 

Kiss and be Friends 

Blossom Bud (New). 

Widow Goldsmith's Daughter. $x 50 

Chris and Otho 150 

Ten Old Maids 1 50 

Lucy 150 

His Young Wife... 1 50 

Arfexnas "Ward. 

Complete Comic Writings — With Biography, Portrait and 50 illustrations. 

The Game of Whist. 
Pole on Whist— The English Standard Work. With the "Portland Rules" 

Victor Hugo's Great Novel. 
Les Miserables— Translated from the French. The only complete edition, 

Mrs. Hill's Cook Book. 
Mrs. A. P. Hill's New Southern Cookery Book, and domestic receipts... 
Celia £. Gardner's Novels. 

Stolen Waters. (In verse) $1 50 

Broken Dreamt. do 1 50 

Compensation. do 1 50 

A Twisted Skein, do 1 50 


Rich Medway 

A Woman's Wiles. 
Terrace Roses . . 

$1 50 

1 50 

$1 75 

2 00 

$1 50 

1 5° 
1 50 
1 5° 

1 50 

$1 So 

$0 75 

$1 50 

$2 00 

$1 50 
1 5° 
1 50 
1 50 

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Marion Ha 
Mary J. H 
May Agnes 
Frank Lee 
Marion Ha 
May Agnes 
Mary J. H 
M. T. Wal 
May Agnes 
M. T. Wal 
Frank Lee 
Mary J. H 
May Agne 
Marion Ha 
Frank Lee 
Mary J. H 


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THOU SHALT NOT, - - - By Albert Ross. 

AN EERIE HE AND SHE, - - By Alan Dale. 



THE SALE OF MRS. ADRAL, By F. H. Costellow. 

DEBORAH DEATH, - - - ' - - - By ? 
AN ERRAND GIRL, By Evelyn Kimball Johnson. 
ROCKS AND SHOALS, By Bella French Swisher. 
ZARAILLA, - - - - - - By Beulah. 

KATHIE, By Anna Oldfield Wiggs. 

The aTOve^pleneud novels are sold every- 
where for 50 cents each, or sent by the 
publisher by mail, postage paid, on receip 
of the price. 

G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher 

*^ 33 West 23d St., New York. 

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